WKwm 


S14- 

E,m2>e. 

3er.  I 
iSe>o 


\ ^ 

WAR 

SERVICE 

LIBRARy 

■V 

THIS'DOORIS 
PROVIDED  *BY 
THE-PEOPLE 
OF-THE 

UNITED-STATES 
- THROUGH-THE 

AMERICAN 

LIBRARY 

■'4'  -M 

ASSOCIATION 

FOR 

W' 

THE-USE-OF 

'■g  ‘ 

. ' iSf ' 

THE-SOLDIERS 

AND'SAILORS 

* 


^ WAR. 
^0^  SERyiCE 
LIBRARy 


THIS-BOOK-IS 

PROVIDED-BY 

THE-PEOPLE 

OF-THE 

UNITED-STATES 
- THROUGH-THE 
AMERICAN 
LIBRARY 
ASSOCIATION 
FOR 

THE-USE-OF 
THE-SOLDIERS 
AND' SAILORS 


THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

©\4- 

EmSe 
ser.  I 
1830 


/ 





■ M 


..yf 


t 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/essaysfirstserie00emer_0 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOlL 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


tss/ws 


riRST 

SCI^ICS 


RALPH 
WALDO 
m EPSON 


PHILADELPHIA 
Henry  Altemus 


CONTENTS 


t /rn  ^ ^ 
AM.  1 


History 


ESSAY  I. 


PAGE 

. 7 


Self-Reliance  . . 

ESSAY  II. 

1 

Compensation  . . . 

ESSAY  III. 

Spiritual  Laws  . 

ESSAY  IV. 

Love 

ESSAY  V. 

Friendship  . . . . 

ESSAY  VI, 

(3) 

880065 


ESSAY  VII. 


Peudence 197 

ESSAY  VIII. 

Heeoism 217 

ESSAY  IX. 

The  Ovee-Soul 237 

ESSAY  X. 

Ciecles 265 

ESSAY  XI. 

Intellect 285 

ESSAY  XII. 

Aet 307 


HISTORY. 


There  is  no  great  and  no  small 
To  the  Soul  that  maketh  all : 

And  where  it  cometh,  all  things  are 
And  it  cometh  everywhere. 


I am  owner  of  the  sphere, 

Of  the  seven  stars  and  the  solar  year, 

Of  Caesar’s  hand,  and  Plato’s  brain, 

Of  Lord  Christ’s  heart,  and  Shakespeare’s  strain. 


HISTORY. 


Theke  is  one  mind  common  to  all  individual 
men.  Every  man  is  an  inlet  to  the  same  and  to 
all  of  the  same.  He  that  is  once  admitted  to  the 
right  of  reason  is  made  a freeman  of  the.  whole 
estate.  What  Plato  has  thought,  he  may  think ; 
what  a saint  has  felt,  he  may  feel ; what  at  any 
time  has  befallen  any  man,  he  can  understand. 
Who  hath  access  to  this  universal  mind,  is  a party 
to  all  that  is  or  can  be  done,  for  this  is  the  only 
and  sovereign  agent. 

Of  the  works  of  this  mind  history  is  the  record. 
Its  genius  is  illustrated  by  the  entire  series  of 
days.  Man  is  explicable  by  nothing  less  than  all 
his  history.  Without  hurry,  without  rest,  the 
human  spirit  goes  forth  from  the  beginning 
to  embody  every  faculty,  every  thought,  every 
emotion,  which  belongs  to  it  in  appropriate 
events.  But  always  the  thought  is  prior  to  the 
fact;  all  the  facts  of  history  pre-exist  in  the  mind 
as  laws.  Each  law  in  turn  is  made  by  circum- 
stances predominant,  and  the  limits  of  nature  give 
power  to  but  one  at  a time.  A man  is  the  whole 

(7) 


8 


ESSAY  L 


encyclopaedia  of  facts.  The  creation  of  a thou- 
sand forests  is  in  one  acorn,  and  Egypt,  Greece, 
Rome,  Gaul,  Britain,  America,  lie  folded  already 
in  the  first  man.  Epoch  after  epoch,  camp, 
kingdom,  empire,  republic,  democracy,  are  merely 
the  application  of  his  manifold  spirit  to  the  mani^ 
lold  world. 

This  human  mind  wrote  history  and  this  must 
read  it.  The  Sphinx  must  solve  her  own  riddle.  If 
the  whole  of  history  is  in  one  man,  it  is  all  to  be 
explained  from  individual  experience.  There  is  a 
relation  between  the  hours  of  our  life  and  the 
centuries  of  time.  As  the  air  I breathe  is  drawn 
from  the  great  repositories  of  nature,  as  the  light 
on  my  book  is  yielded  by  a star  a hundred  millions 
of  miles  distant,  as  the  poise  of  my  body  dei)ends 
on  the  equilibrium  of  centrifugal  and  centripetal 
forces,  so  the  hours  should  be  instructed  by  the 
ages,  and  the  ages  explained  by  the  hours.  Of 
the  universal  mind  each  individual  man  is  one 
more  incarnation.  All  its  properties  consist  in 
him.  Every  step  in  his  private  experience  flashes 
a light  on  what  great  bodies  of  men  have  done, 
and  the  crises  of  his  life  refer  to  national  crises. 
.Every  revolution  was  first  a thought  in  one  man’s 
mind,  and  when  the  same  thought  occurs  to 
another  man,  it  is  the  key  to  that  era.  Every  re- 
form was  once  a private  opinion,  and  when  it 
shall  be  private  opinion  again,  it  will  solve 
the  problem  of  the  age.  The  fact  narrated 
must  correspond  to  something  in  me  to  be  cred- 
ible or  intelligible.  We  as  we  read  must  become 


HISTORY. 


9 


Greeks,  Romans,  Turks,  priest,  and  king,  martyr 
and  executioner,  must  fasten  these  images  to  some 
reality  in  our  secret  experience,  or  we  shall  see 
nothing,  learn  nothing,  keep  nothing.  What 
befell  Asdrubal  or  Caesar  Borgia,  is  as  much  an 
illustration  of  the  mind’s  powers  and  depravations 
as  what  has  befallen  us.  Each  new  law  and 
political  movement  has  meaning  for  you.  Stand 
before  each  of  its  tablets  and  say,  ‘‘Here  is  one  of 
my  coverings.  Under  this  fantastic,  or  odious,  or 
graceful  mask,  did  my  Proteus  nature  hide  itself.” 
This  remedies  the  defect  of  our  too  great  nearness 
to  ourselves.  This  throws  our  own  actions  into 
perspective:  and  as  crabs,  goats,  scorpions,  the 
balance  and  the  waterpot,  lose  all  their  meanness 
when  hung  as  signs  in  the  zodiac,  so  I can  see 
my  own  vices  without  heat  in  the  distant  persons 
of  Solomon,  Alcibiades,  and  Catiline. 

It  is  this  universal  nature  which  gives  worth  to 
particular  men  and  things.  Human  life  as  contain- 
ing this  is  mysterious  and  inviolable,  and  we  hedge 
it  round  with  penalties  and  laws.  All  laws  de- 
rive hence  their  ultimate  reason,  all  express  at 
last  reverence  for  some  command  of  this  supreme 
illimitable  essence.  Property  also  holds  of  the 
soul,  covers  great  spiritual  facts,  and  instinc- 
tively we  at  first  hold  to  it  with  swords  and  laws, 
and  wide  and  complex  combinations.  The  ob- 
scure consciousness  of  this  fact  is  the  light  of  all 
our  day,  the  claim  of  claims ; the  plea  for  educa- 
tion, for  justice,  for  charity,  the  foundation  of 
friendship  and  love,  and  of  the  heroism  and  gran- 


lO 


ESSAY  /. 


deiir  which  belongs  to  acts  of  self-reliance.  It  is 
remarkable  that  involuntarily  we  always  read  as 
superior  beings.  Universal  history,  the  poets,  the 
romancers,  do  not  in  their  stateliest  pictures, — in 
the  sacerdotal,  the  imperial  palaces,  in  the 
triumphs  of  will,  or  of  genius,  anywhere  lose  our 
ear,  anywhere  make  us  feel  that  we  intrude,  that 
this  is  for  our  betters,  but  rather  is  it  true  that  in 
their  grandest  strokes,  there  we  feel  most  at  home. 
All  that  Shakespeare  says  of  the  king,  yonder  slip 
of  a boy  that  reads  in  the  corner,  feels  to  be  true 
of  himself.  We  sympathize  in  the  great  moments 
of  history,  in  the  great  discoveries,  the  great  re- 
sistances, the  great  prosperities  of  men  ; — because 
there  law  was  enacted,  the  sea  was  searched, 
the  land  was  found,  or  the  blow  was  struck  for  us^ 
as  we  ourselves  in  that  place  would  have  done  or 
applauded. 

So  is  it  in  respect  to  condition  and  character. 
We  honor  the  rich  because  they  have  externally 
the  freedom,  power  and  grace  which  we  feel  to  be 
proper  to  man,  proper  to  us.  So  all  that  is  said 
of  the  wise  man  by  stoic  or  oriental  or  modern 
essayist,  describes  to  each  man  his  own  idea,  de- 
scribes his  unattained  but  attainable  self.  All 
literature  writes  the  character  of  the  wise  man. 
All  books,  monuments,  pictures,  conversation,  are 
portraits  in  which  the  wise  man  finds  the  linea- 
ments he  is  forming.  The  silent  and  the  loud 
praise  him,  and  accost  him,  and  he  is  stimulated 
wherever  he  moves  as  by  personal  allusions.  A 
wise  and  good  soul,  therefore,  never  needs  look 


HISTORY, 


II 


for  allusions  personal  and  laudatory  in  discourse. 
He  hears  the  commendation,  not  of  himself,  but 
more  sweet,  of  that  character  he  seeks,  in  every 
word  that  is  said  concerning  character,  yea, 
further,  in  every  fact  that  befalls, — in  the  running 
river,  and  the  rustling  corn.  Praise*  is  looked, 
homage  tendered,  love  flows  from  mute  nature, 
from  the  mountains  and  the  lights  of  the  firma- 
ment. 

These  hints,  dropped  as  it  were  from  sleep  and 
night,  let  us  use  in  broad  day.  The  student  is 
to  read  history  actively  and  not  passively ; to 
esteem  his  own  life  the  text,  and  books  the  com- 
mentary. Thus  compelled,  the  muse  of  history 
will  utter  oracles,  as  never  to  those  who  do  not 
respect  themselves.  I have  no  expectation  that 
any  man  will  read  history  aright,  who  thinks  that 
what  was  done  in  a remote  age,  by  men  whose 
names,  have  resounded  far,  has  any  deeper  sense 
than  what  he  is  doing  to-day. 

The  world  exists  for  the  education  of  each  man. 
There  is  no  age  or  state  of  society  or  mode  of 
action  in  history,  to  which  there  is  not  somewhat 
corresponding  in  his  life.  Everything  tends  in 
a most  wonderful  manner  to  abbreviate  itself  and 
yield  its  whole  virtue  to  him.  He  should  see  that 
he  can  live  all  history  in  his  own  person.  He 
must  sit  at  home  with  might  and  main,  and  not 
suffer  himself  to  be  bullied  by  kings  or  empires, 
but  know  that  he  is  greater  than  all  the  geography 
and  all  the  government  of  the  world ; he  must 
transfer  the  point  of  view  from  which  history  is 


12 


ESSAY  L 


commonly  read,  from  Rome  and  Athens  and 
London  to  himself,  and  not  deny  his  conviction 
that  he  is  the  Court,  and  if  England  or  Egypt 
have  anything  to  say  to  him,  he  will  try  the  case ; 
if  not,  let  them  forever  be  silent.  He  must  attain 
and  maintain  that  lofty  sight  where  facts  yield 
their  secret  sense,  and  poetry  and  annals  are  alike. 
The  instinct  of  the  mind,  the  purpose  of  nature 
betrays  itself  in  the  use  we  make  of  the  signal 
narrations  of  history.  Time  dissipates  to  shining 
ether  the  solid  angularity  of  facts.  No  anchor, 
no  cable,  no  fences  avail  to  keep  a fact  a fact. 
Babylon  and  Troy  and  Tyre  and  even  early  Rome 
are  passing  already  into  fiction.  The  Garden  of 
Eden,  the  Sun  standing  still  in  Gibeon,  is  poetry 
thenceforward  to  all  nations.  Who  cares  what 
the  fact  was,  when  we  have  thus  made  a constel- 
lation of  it  to  hang  in  heaven  an  immortal  sign  ? 
London  and  Paris  and  New  vYork  must  go  the 
same  way.  What  is  History,”  said  Napoleon, 
‘‘but  a fable  agreed  upon?”  This  life  of  ours  is 
stuck  round  with  Egypt,  Greece,  Gaul,  England, 
War,  Colonization,  Church,  Court,  and  Com- 
merce, as  with  so  many  flowers  and  wild  orna- 
ments, grave  and  gay.  I will  not  make  more  ac- 
count of  them.  I believe  in  Eternity.  I can  find 
Greece,  Palestine,  Italy,  Spain,  and  the  Islands, — 
the  genius  and  creative  principle  of  each  and  of 
all  eras  in  my  own  mind. 

We  are  always  coming  up  with  the  facts  that 
have  moved  us  in  history  in  our  private  experi- 
ence, and  verifying  them  here.  All  history  be- 


HISTORY, 


13 


comes  subjective  ; in  other  words,  there  is  properly 
no  History;  only  Biography.  Every  soul  must 
know  the  whole  lesson  for  itself — must  go  over  the 
whole  ground.  What  it  does  not  see,  what  it  does 
not  live,  it  will  not  know.  What  the  former  age 
has  epitomized  into  a formula  or  rule  for  manipm 
lar  convenience,  it  will  lose  all  the  good  of  verify- 
ing for  itself,  by  means  of  the  wall  of  that  rule. 
Somewhere  or  other,  some  time  or  other,  it  will 
demand  and  find  compensation  for  that  loss  by 
doing  the  work  itself.  Ferguson  discovered  many 
things  in  astronomy  which  had  long  been  known. 
The  better  for  him. 

History  must  be  this  or  it  is  nothing.  Every 
law  which  the  state  enacts,  indicates  a fact  in 
human  nature;  that  is  all.  We  must  in  our  own 
nature  see  the  necessary  reason  for  every  fact, — 
see  how  it  could  and  must  be.  So  stand  before 
every  public,  every  private  work  ; before  an  ora- 
tion of  Burke,  before  a victory  of  Napoleon,  be- 
fore a martyrdom  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  of  Sidney, 
of^Marinaduke  Robinson,  before  a French  Reign 
of  Terror,  and  a Salem  hanging  of  witches,  before 
a fanatic  Revival,  and  the  Animal  Magnetism  in 
.Paris,  or  in  Providence.  We  assume  that  we 
under  like  influence  should  be  alike  affected,  and 
should  achieve  the  like ; and  we  aim  to  master  in- 
tellectually the  steps,  and  reach  the  same  height 
or  tlie  same  degradation  that  our  fellow,  our  proxy 
has  done. 

All  inquiry  into  antiquity, — all  curiosity  re- 
specting the  pyramids,  the  excavated  cities.  Stone- 


ESSAY  /. 


14 

henge,  the  Ohio  Circles,  Mexico,  Memphis,  is  the 
desire  to  do  away  this  wild,  savage  and  preposter- 
ous There  or  Then,  and  introduce  in  its  place  the 
Here  and  the  Now.  It  is  to  banish  the  Not  me^ 
and  supply  the  Me.  It  is  to  abolish  difference  and 
restore  unity.  Belzoni  digs  and  measures  in  the 
mummy-pits  and  pyramids  of  Thebes,  until  he  can 
see  the  end  of  the  difference  between  the  mon- 
strous work  and  himself.  When  he  has  satisfied 
himself,  in  general  and  in  detail,  that  it  was  made 
by  such  a person  as  himself,  so  armed  and  so  mo- 
tived, and  to  ends  to  which  he  himself  in  given 
circumstances  should  also  have  worked,  the  prob- 
lem is  then  solved ; his  thought  lives  along  the 
whole  line  of  temples  and  sphinxes  and  catacombs, 
passes  through  them  all  like  a creative  soul,  with 
satisfaction,  and  they  live  again  to  the  mind,  or 
are  now. 

A Gothic  cathedral  affirms  that  it  was  done  by 
us,  and  not  done  by  us.  Surely  it  was  by  man, 
but  we  find  it  not  in  our  man.  But  we  apply 
ourselves  to  the  history  of  its  production.  We 
put  ourselves  into  the  place  and  historical  state 
of  the  builder.  We  remember  the  forest  dwellers, 
the  first  temples,  the  adherence  to  the  first  type, 
and  the  decoration  of  it  as  the  wealth  of  the  na- 
tion increased  : the  value  which  is  given  to  wood 
by  carving  led  to  the  carving  over  the  whole 
mountain  of  stone  of  a cathedral.  When  we  have 
gone  through  this  process,  and  added  thereto  the 
Catholic  Church,  its  cross,  its  music,  its  processions, 
its  Saints’  days  and  image-worship,  we  have,  as  it 


HISTORY. 


15 


were,  been  the  man  that  made  the  minister ; we 
have  seen  how  it  could  and  must  be.  We  have  the 
sufficient  reason. 

The  difference  between  men  is  in  their  principle 
of  association.  Some  men  classify  objects  by  color 
and  size  and  other  accidents  of  appearance  ; others 
by  intrinsic  likeness,  or  by  the  relation  of  cause 
and  effect.  The  progress  of  the  intellect  consists 
in  the  clearer  vision  of  causes,  which  overlooks 
surface  differences.  To  the  poet,  to  the  philoso- 
pher, to  the  saint,^  all  things  are  friendly  and 
sacred,  all  events  profitable,  all  days  holy,  all  men 
divine.  For  the  eye  is  fastened  on  the  life,  and 
slights  the  circumstance.  Every  chemical  sub- 
stance, every  plant,  every  animal  in  its  growth, 
teaches  the  unity  of  cause,  the  variety  of  appear- 
ance. 

Why,  being  as  we  are  surrounded  by  this  alb 
creating  nature,  soft  and  fluid  as  a cloud  or  the  air, 
should  we  be  such  hard  pedants,  and  magnify  a 
few  forms?  Why  should  we  make  account  of 
time,  or  of  magnitude,  or  of  form  ? The  soul  knows 
them  not,  and  genius,  obeying  its  law,  knows  how 
to  play  with  them  as  a young  child  plays  with 
graybeards  and  in  churches.  Genius  studies  the 
causal  thought,  and  far  back  in  the  womb  of 
things,  sees  the  rays  parting  from  one  orb,  that 
diverge  ere  they  fall  by  infinite  diameters.  Genius 
watches  the  monad  through  all  his  masks  as  he 
performs  the  metempsychosis  of  nature.  Genius 
detects  through  tlie  fly,  through  the  caterpillar, 
through  the  grub,  through  the  egg,  the  constant 


i6 


ESSAY  L 


type  of  the  individual ; through  countless  indi- 
viduals the  fixed  species;  through  many  species 
the  genus;  through  all  genera  the  steadfast 
type ; through  all  the  kingdoms  of  organized 
life  the  eternal  unity.  Nature  is  a mutable 
cloud,  which  is  always  and  never  the  same.  She 
casts  the  same  thought  into  troops  of  forms,  as  a 
poet  makes  twenty  fables  with  one  moral.  Beauti- 
fully shines  a spirit  through  the  bruteness  and 
toughness  of  matter.  Alone  omnipotent,  it  con- 
verts all  things  to  its  own  end.  The  adamant 
streams  into  softest  but  precise  form  before  it,  but, 
whilst  I look  at  it,  its  outline  and  texture  are 
changed  altogether.  Nothing  is  so  fleeting  as  form. 
Yet  never  does  it  quite  deny  itself.  In  man  we 
still  trace  the  rudiments  or  hints  of  all  that  we 
esteem  badges  of  servitude  in  the  lower  races,  yet 
in  him  they  enhance  his  nobleness  and  grace  ; as 
lo,  in  JEschylus,  transformed  to  a cow,  offends  the 
imagination,  but  how  changed  when  as  Isis  in 
Egypt  she  meets  Jove,  a beautiful  woman,  with 
nothing  of  the  metamorphosis  left  but  the  lunar 
horns  as  the  splendid  ornament  of  her  brows. 

The  identity  of  history  is  equally  intrinsic,  the 
diversity  equally  obvious.  There  is  at  the  surface 
infinite  variety  of  things;  at  the  centre  there  is 
simplicity  and  unity  of  cause.  How  many  are  the 
acts  of  one  man  in  which  we  recognize  the  same 
character.  See  the  variety  of  the  sources  of  our 
information  in  respect  to  the  Greek  genius.  Thus 
at  first  we  have  the  civil  history  of  that  people,  as 
Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Xenophon,  Plutarch  have 


HISTOR  K 


17 

given  it — a very  sufficient  account  of  what  man- 
ner of  persons  they  were,  and  what  they  did. 
Then  we  have  the  same  soul  expressed  for  us 
again  in  their  literature  ; in  poems,  drama,  and 
philosophy  : a very  complete  form.  Then  we  have 
it  once  more  in  their  architecture^ — the  purest  sen 
suous  beauty, — the  perfect  medium  never  over 
stepping  the  limit  of  charming  propriety  and 
grace.  Then  we  have  it  once  more  in  sculpture^ — 
the  tongue  on  the  balance  of  expression,”  those 
forms  in  every  action,  at  every  age  of  life,  rang- 
ing through  all  the  scale  of  condition,  from  god  to 
beast,  and  never  transgressing  the  ideal  serenity, 
but  in  convulsive  exertion  the  liege  of  order  and 
of  law.  Thus,  of  the  genius  of  one  remarkable 
people,  we  have  a fourfold  representation, — the 
most  various  expression  of  one  moral  thing  : and 
to  the  senses  what  more  unlike  than  an  ode  of 
Pindar,  a marble  Centaur,  the  Peristyle  of  the 
Parthenon,  and  the  last  actions  of  Phocion?  Yet 
do  these  varied  external  expressions  proceed  from 
one  national  mind. 

Every  one  must  have  observed  faces  and  forms 
which,  without  any  resembling  feature,  make  a 
like  impression  on  the  beholder.  A particular 
picture  or  copy  of  verses,  if  it  do  not  awaken  tin 
same  train  of  images,  will  yet  superinduce  the 
same  sentiment  as  some  wild  mountain  wnlk,  al- 
though the  resemblance  is  nowise  obvious  to  the 
senses,  but  is  occult  and  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
understanding.  Nature  is  an  endless  combination 
and  repetition  of  a very  few  laws.  She  hums  the 

2 


i8 


£SSAV  /. 


old  well  known  air  through  innumerable  varia* 
tions. 

Nature  is  full  of  a sublime  family  likeness 
throughout  her  works.  She  delights  in  startling 
us  with  resemblances  in  the  most  unexpected 
quarters.  I have  seen  the  head  of  an  old  sachem 
of  the  forest,  which  at  once  reminded  the  eye  of 
a bald  mountain  summit,  and  the  furrows  of  the 
brow  suggested  the  strata  of  the  rock.  There  are 
men  whose  manners  have  the  same  essential  splen- 
dor as  the  simple  and  awful  sculpture  on  the 
friezes  of  the  Parthenon,  and  the  remains  of  the 
earliest  Greek  art.  And  there  are  compositions  of 
the  same  strain  to  be  found  in  the  books  of  all 
ages.  What  is  Guido’s  Rospigliosi  Aurora  but  a 
morning  thought,  as  the  horses  in  it  are  only  a 
morning  cloud.  If  any  one  will  but  take  pains  to 
observe  the  variety  of  actions  to  which  he  is 
equally  inclined  in  certain  moods  of  mind,  and 
those  to  which  he  is  averse,  he  will  see  how  deep 
is  the  chain  of  affinity. 

A painter  told  me  that  nobody  could  draw  a 
tree  without  in  some  sort  becoming  a tree ; or 
draw  a child  by  studying  the  outlines  of  its  form 
merely, — but,  by  watching  for  a time  his  motions 
and  plays,  the  painter  enters  into  his  nature,  and 
can  then  draw  him  at  will  in  every  attitude.  So 
Roos  “entered into  the  inmost  nature  of  a sheep.” 
I knew  a draughtsman  employed  in  a public  sur- 
vey, who  found  that  he  could  not  sketch  the  rocks 
until  their  geological  structure  was  first  explained 
to  him. 


HISTORY, 


19 


What  is  to  be  inferred  from  these  facts  but  this ; 
that  in  a certain  state  of  thought  is  the  common 
origin  of  very  diverse  works  ? It  is  the  spirit 
and  not  the  fact  that  is  identical.  By  descend^ 
ing  far  down  into  the  depths  of  the  soul,  and  not 
primarily  by  a painful  acquisition  of  many  man- 
ual skills,  the  artist  attains  the  power  of  awak- 
ening other  souls  to  a given  activity. 

It  has  been  said  that  ‘‘common  souls  pay  with 
what  they  do  ; nobler  souls  with  that  which  they 
are.”  And  why?  Because  a soul,  living  from  a 
great  depth  of  being,  awakens  in  us  by  its  ac- 
tions and  words,  by  its  very  looks  and  manners, 
the  same  power  and  beauty  that  a gallery  of 
sculpture,  or  of  pictures,  are  wont  to  animate. 

Civil  history,  natural  history,  the  history  of  art, 
and  the  history  of  literature, — all  must  be  ex- 
plained from  individual  history,  or  must  remain 
words.  There  is  nothing  but  is  related  to  us, 
nothing  that  does  not  interest  us — kingdom,  col- 
lege, tree,  horse,  or  iron  shoe,  the  roots  of  all 
things  are  in  man.  It  is  in  the  soul  that  architect- 
ure exists.  Santa  Croce  and  the  Dome  of  St. 
Peter’s  are  lame  copies  after  a divine  model. 
Strasburg  Cathedral  is  a material  counterpart  of 
the  soul  of  Erwin  of  Steinbach.  The  true  poem 
is  the  poet’s  mind ; the  true  ship  is  the  ship- 
builder. In  the  man,  could  we  lay  him  open,  we 
should  see  the  sufScent  reason  for  the  last  flourish 
and  tendril  of  his  work,  as  every  spine  and  tint  in 
the  sea-shell  pre-exist  in  the  secreting  organs  of 
the  fish.  The  whole  of  heraldry  and  of  chivalry 


20 


ESSAV  /. 


is  in  courtesy.  A man  of  fine  manners  shall 
pronounce  your  name  with  all  the  ornament  that 
titles  of  nobility  could  ever  add. 

The  trivial  experience  of  every  day  is  always 
verifying  some  old  prediction  to  us,  and  convert- 
ing into  things  for  us  also  the  words  and  signs 
which  we  had  heard  and  seen  without  heed.  Let 
me  add  a few  examples,  such  as  fall  within  the 
scope  of  every  man’s  observation,  of  trivial  facts 
which  go  to  illustrate  great  and  conspicuous  facts. 

A lady,  with  whom  I was  riding  in  the  forest, 
said  to  me,  that  the  woods  alwaj^s  seemed  to  her 
to  ivait^  as  if  the  genii  who  inhabit  them  suspended 
their  deeds  until  the  wayfarer  has  passed  onward. 
This  is  precisely  the  thought  which  poetry  has  cele- 
brated in  the  dance  of  the  fairies  which  breaks  off 
on  the  approach  of  human  feet.  The  man  who 
has  seen  the  rising  moon  break  out  of  the  clouds 
at  midnight,  has  been  present  like  an  archangel  at 
the  creation  of  light  and  of  the  world.  I remem- 
ber that  being  abroad  one  summer  day,  my  com- 
panion pointed  out  to  me  a broad  cloud,  which 
might  extend  a quarter  of  a mile  parallel  to  the 
horizon,  quite  accurately  in  the  form  of  a cherub 
as  painted  over  churches, — a round  block  in  the 
centre  which  it  was  easy  to  animate  with  eyes  and 
mouth,  supported  on  either  side  by  wide  stretched 
symmetrical  wings.  What  appears  once  in  the  at- 
mosphere may  appear  often,  and  it  was  undoubt- 
edly tlie  archetype  of  that  familiar  ornament.  I 
have  seen  in  the  sky  a chain  of  summer  lightning 
which  at  once  revealed  to  me  that  the  Greeks  drew 


HISTORY. 


21 


from  nature  when  they  painted  the  thunderbolt  in 
the  hand  of  Jove.  I have  seen  a snow-drift  along 
the  sides  of  the  stone  wall  which  obviously  gave 
the  idea  of  the  common  architectural  scroll  to 
abut  a tower. 

By  simply  throwing  ourselves  into  new  circum 
stances  we  do  continually  invent  anew  the  orders 
and  the  ornaments  of  architecture,  as  we  see  how 
each  people  merely  decorated  its  primitive  abodes. 
The  Doric  temple  still  presents  the  semblance  of 
the  wooden  cabin  in  which  the  Dorian  dwelt. 
The  Chinese  pagoda  is  plainly  a Tartar  tent.  The 
Indian  and  Egyptian  temples  still  betray  the 
mounds  and  subterranean  houses  of  their  fore- 
fathers. “The  custom  of  making  houses  and 
tombs  in  the  living  rock  ” (says  Heeren,  in  his 
Researches  on  the  Ethiopians),  “determined  very 
naturally  the  principal  character  of  the  Nubian 
Egyptian  architecture  to  the  colossal  form  which 
it  assumed.  In  these  caverns  already  prepared 
by  nature,  the  eye  was  accustomed  to  dwell  on 
huge  shapes  and  masses,  so  that  when  art  came  to 
the  assistance  of  nature,  it  could  not  move  on  a 
small  scale  without  degrading  itself.  What 
would  statues  of  the  usual  size,  or  neat  porches 
and  wings  have  been,  associated  with  those  gi- 
gantic halls  before  which  only  Colossi  could  sit  as 
watchmen,  or  lean  on  the  pillars  of  the  interior?  ” 

The  Gothic  church  plainlj^  originated  in  a rude 
adaptation  of  the  forest  trees  with  all  their  boughs 
to  a festal  or  solemn  arcade,  as  the  bands  about 
the  cleft  pillars  still  indicate  the  green  withes 


22 


ESSAY  L 


that  tied  them.  No  one  can  walk  in  a road 
cut  through  pine  woods,  without  being  struck 
with  the  architectural  appearance  of  the  grove, 
especially  in  winter,  when  the  bareness  of  all 
other  trees  shows  the  low  arch  of  the  Saxons.  In 
the  woods  in  a winter  afternoon  one  will  see  as 
readily  the  origin  of  the  stained  glass  window 
with  which  the  Gothic  cathedrals  are  adorned,  in 
the  colors  of  the  western  sky  seen  through  the 
bare  and  crossing  branches  of  the  forest.  Nor 
can  any  lover  of  nature  enter  the  old  piles  of 
Oxford  and  the  English  cathedrals  without  feeling 
that  the  forest  overpowered  the  mind  of  the 
builder,  and  that  his  chisel,  his  saw,  and  plane 
still  reproduced  its  ferns,  its  spikes  of  flowers,  its 
locust,  its  pine,  its  oak,  its  fir,  its  spruce. 

The  Gothic  cathedral  is  a blossoming  in  stone 
subdued  by  the  insatiable  demand  of  harmony  in 
man.  The  mountain  of  granite  blooms  into  an 
eternal  flower  with  the  lightness  and  delicate 
finish  as  well  as  the  aerial  proportions  and  per- 
spective of  vegetable  beauty. 

In  like  manner  all  public  facts  are  to  be  indi- 
vidualized, all  private  facts  are  to  be  generalized. 
Then  at  once  History  becomes  fluid  and  true,  and 
Biography  deep  and  sublime.  As  the  Persian  im- 
itated in  the  slender  shafts  and  capitals  of  his 
arclntecture  the  stem  and  flower  of  the  lotus  and 
palm,  so  the  Persian  Court  in  its  magnificent  era 
never  gave  over  the  Nomadism  of  its  barbarous 
tribes,  but  traveled  from  Ecbatana,  where  the 


HISTORY.  23 

spring  was  spent,  to  Susa  in  summer,  and  to 
Babylon  for  the  winter. 

In  the  early  history  of  Asia  and  Africa,  No- 
madism and  Agriculture  are  the  two  antagonistic 
facts.  The  geography  of  Asia  and  Africa  neces- 
sitated a nomadic  life.  But  the  nomads  were  the 
terror  of  all  those  whom  the  soil  or  the  advantages 
of  a market  had  induced  to  build  towns.  Agri- 
culture, therefore,  was  a religious  injunction  be- 
cause of  the  perils  of  the  state  from  nomadism. 
And  in  these  late  and  civil  countries  of  England 
and  America,  the  contest  of  these  propensities 
still  fights  out  the  old  battle  in  each  individual. 
We  are  all  rovers  and  all  fixtures  by  turns,  and 
pretty  rapid  turns.  The  nomads  of  Africa  are 
constrained  to  wander  by  the  attacks  of  the  gad- 
fly, which  drives  the  cattle  mad,  and  so  compels 
the  tribe  to  emigrate  in  the  rainy  season  and  drive 
off  the  cattle  to  the  higher  sandy  regions.  The 
nomads  of  Asia  follow  the  pasturage  from  month 
to  month.  In  America  and  Europe  the  nomadism 
is  of  trade  and  curiosity.  A progress  certainly 
from  the  gad-fly  of  Astaboras  to  the  Anglo  and 
Italomania  of  Boston  Bay.  The  difference  be- 
tween men  in  this  respect  is  the  faculty  of  rapid 
domestication,  the  power  to  find  his  chair  and  bed 
everywhere,  which  one  man  has,  and  another  has 
not.  Some  men  have  so  much  of  the  Indian  left, 
have  constitutionally  such  habits  of  accommoda- 
tion, that  at  sea,  or  in  the  forest,  or  in  the  snow, 
they  sleep  as  warm,  and  dine  with  as  good  appe- 
tite, and  associate  as  happily,  as  in  their  own 


24 


ESS  A Y L 


house.  And  to  push  this  old  fact  still  one  degree 
nearer,  we  may  find  it  a representative  of  a per- 
manent fact  in  human  nature.  The  intellectual 
nomadism  in  the  faculty  of  objectiveness  or  of  eyes 
which  everywhere  feed  themselves.  Who  hath 
such  eyes,  everywhere  falls  into  easy  relations 
with  his  fellow-men.  Every  man,  everjThiiig  is 
a prize,  a study,  a property  to  him,  and  this  love 
smooths  his  brow,  joins  him  to  men  and  makes 
him  beautiful  and  beloved  in  their  sight.  His 
house  is  a wagon  ; he  roams  through  all  latitudes 
as  easily  as  a Calmuc. 

Everything  the  individual  sees  without  him, 
corresponds  to  his  states  of  mind,  and  everything 
is  in  turn  intelligible  to  him,  as  his  onward  think- 
ing leads  him  into  the  truth  to  which  that  fact  or 
series  belongs. 

The  primeval  world,  the  Fore-World,  as  the 
Germans  say^c— I can  dive  to  it  in  myself  as  well 
as  grope  for  it  with  researching  fingers  in  cata^ 
combs,  libraries,  and  the  broken  reliefs  and  torsos 
of  ruined  villas. 

What  is  the  foundation  of  that  interest  all  men 
feel  in  Greek  history,  letters,  art  and  poetry,  in 
all  its  periods,  from  the  heroic  or  Homeric  age, 
down  to  the  domestic  life  of  the  Athenians  and 
Spartans,  four  or  five  centuries  later?  This 
period  draws  us  because  we  are  Greeks.  It  is  a 
state  through  which  every  man  in  some  sort 
passes.  The  Grecian  state  is  the  era  of  the  bodily 
nature,  the  perfection  of  the  senses, — of  the 
spiritual  nature  unfolded  in  strict  unity  with  the 


HISTORY, 


25 


body.  In  it  existed  those  human  forms  which 
supplied  the  sculptor  with  his  models  of  Hercules, 
Phoebus,  and  Jove  ; not  like  the  forms  abounding 
in  the  streets  of  modern  cities,  wherein  the  face 
is  a confused  blur  of  features,  but  composed  of  in- 
corrupt, sharply  defined  and  symmetrical  features, 
whose  eye-sockets  are  so  formed  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  such  eyes  to  squint,  and  take  furtive 
glances  on  this  side  and  on  that,  but  they  must 
turn  the  whole  head. 

The  manners  of  that  period  are  plain  and  fierce. 
The  reverence  exhibited  is  for  personal  qualities, 
courage,  address,  self-command,  justice,  strength, 
swiftness,  a loud  voice,  a broad  chest.  Luxury  is 
not  known,  nor  elegance.  A sparse  population 
and  want  make  every  man  his  own  valet,  cook, 
butcher,  and  soldier,  and  the  habit  of  supplying 
his  own  needs  educates  the  body  to  wonderful 
performances.  Such  are  the  Agamemnon  and 
Diomed  of  Homer,  and  not  far  different  is  the 
picture  Xenophon  gives  of  himself  and  his  com- 
patriots in  the  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand. 

After  the  army  had  crossed  the  river  Teleboas 
ill  Armenia,  there  fell  much  snow,  and  the  troops 
lay  miserably  on  the  ground,  covered  with  it. 
But  Xenophon  arose  naked,  and  taking  an  axe, 
began  to  split  wood ; whereupon  others  rose  and 
did  the  like.”  Throughout  his  army  seemed  to 
be  a boundless  liberty  of  speech.  They  quarrel 
for  plunder,  they  wrangle  with  the  generals  on 
each  new  order,  and  Xenophon  is  as  sharp-tongued 
as  any,  and  sharper-tongued  than  most,  and  so 


26 


ESSAV  /. 


gives  as  good  as  he  gets.  Who  does  not  see  that 
this  is  a gang  of  great  boys  with  such  a code  of 
honor  and  such  lax  discipline  as  great  boys  have? 

The  costly  charm  of  the  ancient  tragedy  and 
indeed  of  all  the  old  literature  is,  that  the  persons 
speak  simply, — speak  as  persons  who  have  great 
good  sense  without  knowing  it,  before  yet  the  re- 
flective habit  has  become  the  predominant  habit 
of  the  mind.  Our  admiration  of  the  antique 
is  not  admiration  of  the  old,  but  of  the  natural. 
The  Greeks  are  not  reflective  but  perfect  in  their 
senses,  perfect  in  their  health,  with  the  finest  phys- 
ical organization  in  the  world.  Adults  acted 
with  the  simplicity  and  grace  of  boys.  They 
made  vases,  tragedies,  and  statues  such  as  healthy 
senses  should — that  is,  in  good  taste.  Such  things 
have  continued  to  be  made  in  all  ages,  and  are 
now,  wherever  a healthy  physique  exists,  but,  as, 
a class,  from  their  superior  organization,  they  have 
surpassed  all.  They  combine  the  energy  of  man- 
hood with  the  engaging  unconsciousness  of  child- 
hood. Our  reverence  for  them  is  our  reverence 
for  childhood.  Nobody  can  reflect  upon  an  un- 
conscious act  with  regret  or  contempt.  Bard  or 
hero  cannot  look  down  on  the  word  or  gesture  of  a 
child.  It  is  as  great  as  they.  The  attraction  of 
these  manners  is,  that  they  belong  to  man,  and 
are  known  to  every  man  in  virtue  of  his  being 
once  a child;  beside  that  always  there  are  individ- 
uals who  retain  these  characteristics.  A person 
of  childlike  genius  and  inborn  energy  is  still  a 
Greek,  and  revives  our  love  of  the  muse  of  Hel- 


HISTORY, 


27 


las.  A great  boy,  a great  girl,  with  good  sense,  is  a 
Greek.  Beautiful  is  the  love  of  nature  in  the 
Philoctetes.  But  in  reading  those  fine  apostro- 
phes to  sleep,  to  the  stars,  rocks,  mountains,  and 
waves,  I feel  time  passing  away  as  an  ebbing  sea. 
I feel  the  eternity  of  man,  the  identity  of  his 
thought.  The  Greek  had,  it  seems,  the  same  feh 
low  beings  as  I.  The  sun  and  moon,  water  and 
fire,  met  his  heart  precisely  as  they  meet  mine. 
Then  the  vaunted  distinction  between  Greek  and 
English,  between  Classic  and  Romantic  schools 
seems  superficial  and  pedantic.  When  a thought 
of  Plato  becomes  a thought  to  me, — when  a truth 
that  fired  the  soul  of  Pindar  fires  mine,  time  is  no 
more.  When  I feel  that  we  two  meet  in  a percep  - 
tion, that  our  two  souls  are  tinged  with  the  same 
hue,  and  do,  as  it  were,  run  into  one,  why  should 
I measure  degrees  of  latitude,  why  should  I count 
Egyptian  years  ? 

The  student  interprets  the  age  of  chivalry  by 
his  own  age  of  chivalry,  and  the  days  of  mari- 
time adventure  and  circumnavigation  by  quite 
parallel  miniature  experiences  of  his  own.  To 
the  sacred  history  of  the  world,  he  has  the  same 
key.  When  the  voice  of  a prophet  out  of  the 
deeps  of  antiquity  merely  echoes  to  him  a senti- 
ment of  his  infancy,  a prayer  of  his  youth,  he 
then  pierces  to  the  truth  through  all  the  confu- 
sion of  tradition  and  the  caricature  of  institutions. 

Rare,  extravagant  spirits  come  by  us  at  inter- 
vals, who  disclose  to  us  new  facts  in  nature.  I 
see  that  men  of  God  have  always,  from  time  to 


28 


ESSAY  /. 


time,  walked  among  men  and  made  their  commis- 
sion felt  in  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  commonest 
hearer.  Hence,  evidently,  the  tripod,  the  priest, 
the  priestess  inspired  by  the  divine  afflatus. 

Jesus  astonishes  and  overpowers  sensual  people. 
They  cannot  unite  him  to  history  or  reconcile 
him  with  themselves.  As  they  come  to  revere 
their  intuitions  and  aspire  to  live  holily,  their  own 
piety  explains  every  fact,  every  word. 

How  easily  these  old  worships  of  Moses,  of 
Zoroaster,  of  Menu,  of  Socrates,  domesticate 
themselves  in  the  mind.  I cannot  find  any  antiq- 
uity in  them.  They  are  mine  as  much  as  theirs. 

Then  I have  seen  the  first  monks  and  anchorets 
without  crossing  seas  or  centuries.  More  than 
once  some  individual  has  appeared  to  me  with 
such  neglience  of  labor  and  such  commanding 
contemplation,  a haughty  beneficiary,  begging  in 
the  name  of  God,  as  made  good  to  the  nineteenth 
century  Simeon  the  Stylite,  the  Thebais,  and  the 
first  Capuchins. 

The  priestcraft  of  the  East  and  West,  of  the 
Magian,  Brahmin,  Druid  and  Inca,  is  expounded 
in  the  individual’s  private  life.  The  cramping  in- 
fluence of  a hard  formalist  on  a young  child  in 
repressing  his  spirits  and  courage,  paralyzing  the 
understanding,  and  that  Avithout  producing  indig- 
nation, but  only  fear  and  obedience,  and  even 
much  sympathy  with  the  tyrrany, — is  a familiar 
fact  explained  to  the  child  w^hen  he  becomes  a 
man,  only  by  seeing  that  the  oppressor  of  his 
youth  is  himself  a child  tyrannized  over  by  those 


HISTORY, 


29 


names  and  words  and  forms,  of  whose  influence 
he  was  merely  the  organ  to  the  youth.  The  fact 
teaches  him  how  Belus  was  worshipped,  and  how 
the  pyramids  were  built,  better  than  the  discovery 
by  Champollion  of  the  names  of  all  the  workmen 
and  the  cost  of  every  tile.  He  finds  Assyria  and 
.he  Mounds  of  Cholula  at  his  door,  and  himself 
has  laid  the  courses. 

Again,  in  that  protest  which  each  considerate 
person  makes  against  the  superstition  of  his  times, 
he  reacts  step  for  step  the  part  of  old  reformers, 
and  in  the  search  after  truth  finds  like  them  new 
perils  to  virtue.  He  learns  again  what  moral 
vigor  is  needed  to  supply  the  girdle  of  a supersti- 
tion. A great  licentiousness  treads  on  the  heels 
of  a reformation.  How  many  times  in  the  history 
of  the  world  has  the  Luther  of  the  day  had  to  la- 
ment the  decay  of  piety  in  his  own  household. 
‘‘  Doctor,”  said  his  wife  to  Martin  Luther  one 
da}%  “how  is  it  that  whilst  subject  to  papacy,  we 
prayed  so  often  and  with  such  fervor,  whilst  now 
we  pray  with  the  utmost  coldness  and  very  sel- 
dom ? ” 

The  advancing  man  discovers  how  deep  a prop- 
erty he  hath  in  all  literature, — in  all  fable  as  well 
as  in  all  history.  He  finds  that  the  poet  was  no 
odd  fellow  who  described  strange  and  impossible 
situations,  but  that  universal  man  wrote  by  his  pen 
a confession  true  for  one  and  true  for  all.  His 
own  secret  biography  he  finds  in  lines  wonderfully 
intelligible  to  him,  yet  dotted  down  before  he 
was  born.  One  after  another  he  comes  up  in  his 


30 


ESSAY  I. 


private  adventures  with  every  fable  of  ^sop, 
of  Homer,  of  Hafiz,  of  Ariosto,  of  Chaucer,  of 
Scott,  and  verifies  them  with  his  own  head  and 
hands. 

The  beautiful  fables  of  the  Greeks,  being  proper 
creations  of  the  Imagination  and  not  of  the 
Fancy,  are  universal  verities.  What  a range  of 
meanings  and  what  perpetual  pertinence  has  the 
story  of  Prometheus  ! Beside  its  primary  value 
as  the  first  chapter  of  the  history  of  Europe  (the 
mythology  thinly  veiling  authentic  facts,  the  in- 
vention of  the  mechanic  arts,  and  the  migration 
of  colonies),  it  gives  the  history  of  religion  with 
some  closeness  to  the  faith  of  later  ages.  Pro- 
metheus is  the  Jesus  of  the  old  mythology.  He 
is  the  friend  of  man ; stands  between  the  unjust 
justice”  of  the  Eternal  Father,  and  the  race  of 
mortals  ; and  readily  suffers  all  things  on  their  ac- 
count. But  where  it  departs  from  the  Calvinistic 
Christianity,  and  exhibits  him  as  the  defier  of 
Jove,  it  represents  a state  of  mind  which  readily 
appears  wherever  the  doctrine  of  Theism  is  taught 
in  a crude,  objective  form,  and  which  seems  the 
self-defence  of  man  against  this  untruth,  namely, 
a discontent  with  the  believed  fact  that  a God  ex- 
ists, and  a feeling  that  the  obligation  of  reverence 
is  onerous.  It  would  steal,  if  it  could,  the  fire  of 
the  Creator,  and  live  apart  from  him,  and  inde- 
pendent of  him.  The  Prometheus  Vinctus  is  the 
romance  of  skepticism.  Not  less  true  to  all  time 
are  all  the  details  of  that  stately  apologue. 
Apollo  kept  the  flocks  of  Admetus,  said  the  poetSc 


HISTORY, 


31 


Every  man  is  a divinity  in  disguise,  a god  playing 
the  foo^  It  seems  as  if  heaven  had  sent  its  in- 
sane angels  into  our  world  as  to  an  asylum,  and 
here  they  will  break  out  into  their  native  music 
and  utter  at  intervals  the  words  they  have  heard 
in  heaven  ; then  the  mad  fit  returns,  and  they 
mope  and  wallow  like  dogs.  When  the  gods  come 
among  men,  they  are  not  known.  Jesus  was  not; 
Socrates  and  Shakespeare  were  not.  Antaeus  was 
suffocated  by  the  grip  of  Hercules,  but  every 
time  he  touched  his  mother  earth,  his  strength 
was  renewed.  Man  is  the  broken  giant,  and  in 
all  h is  weakness,  both  his  body  and  his  mind  are 
invigorated  by  habits  of  conversation  with  nature. 
The  power  of  music,  the  power  of  poetry  to  un- 
fix, and  as  it  were,  clap  wings  to  all  solid  nature, 
interprets  the  riddle  of  Orpheus,  which  was  to  his 
childhood  an  idle  tale.  The  philosophical  percep- 
tion of  identity  through  endless  mutations  of 
form,  makes  him  know  the  Proteus.  What  else 
am  I who  laughed  or  wept  yesterday,  who  slept 
last  night  like  a corpse,  and  this  morning  stood 
and  ran?  And  what  see  I on  any  side  but  the 
transmigrations  of  Proteus?  I can  symbolize  my 
thought  by  using  the  name  of  any  creature,  of  any 
fact,  because  every  creature  is  man,  agent  or  pa- 
tient. Tantalus  is  but  a name  for  you  and  me. 
Tantalus  means  the  impossibility  of  drinking  the 
waters  of  thought  which  are  always  gleaming  and 
waving  within  sight  of  the  soul.  Th(‘  transmi- 
gration of  souls  : that  too  is  no  fable.  I would  it 
were  ; but  men  and  women  are  only  half  human. 


32 


ESSAV  /. 


Every  animal  of  the  barn -yard,  the  field  and  the 
forest,  of  the  earth  and  of  the  waters  that  are  un- 
der the  earth,  has  contrived  to  get  a footing  and 
to  leave  the  print  of  its  features  and  form  in  some 
one  or  other  of  these  upright,  heaven -facing 
speakers.  Ah,  brother,  hold  fast  to  the  man  and 
awe  the  beast;  stop  the  ebb  of  thy  soul — ebbing 
downward  into  the  forms  into  whose  habits  thou 
hast  now  for  many  years  slid.  As  near  and  proper 
to  us  is  also  that  old  fable  of  the  Sphinx,  who  was 
said  to  sit  in  the  roadside  and  put  riddles  to  every 
passenger.  If  the  man  could  not  answer  she 
swallowed  him  alive.  If  he  could  solve  the  rid- 
dle, the  Sphinx  was  slain.  What  is  our  life  but 
an  endless  flight  of  winged  facts  or  events ! In 
splendid  variety  these  changes  come,  all  putting 
questions  to  the  human  spirit.  Those  men  who 
cannot  answer  by  a superior  wisdom  these  facts  or 
questions  of  time,  serve  them.  Facts  encumber 
them,  tyrannize  over  them,  and  make  the  men  of 
routine,  the  men  of  sense^  in  whom  a literal  obedi- 
ence to  facts  has  extinguished  every  spark  of  that 
light  by  which  man  is  truly  man.  But  if  the  man 
is  true  to  his  better  instincts  or  sentiments,  and 
refuses  the  dominion  of  facts,  as  one  that  comes 
of  a higher  race,  remains  fast  by  the  soul  and  sees 
the  principle,  then  the  facts  fall  aptly  and  supple 
into  their  places ; they  know  their  master,  and  the 
meanest  of  them  glorifies  him. 

See  in  Goethe's  Helena  the  same  desire  that 
everv  word  should  be  a thing.  These  figures,  he 
would  say,  these  Chirons,  Grifl&ns,  Phorkyas, 


HISTORY. 


33 


Helen,  and  Leda,  are  somewhat,  and  do  exert  a 
specific  influence  on  the  mind.  So  far  then  are 
they  eternal  entities,  as  real  to-day  as  in  the  first 
Olympiad.  Much  revolving  them,  he  writes  out 
freely  his  humor,  and  gives  them  body  to  his  own 
imagination.  And  although  that  poem  be  as  vague 
and  fantastic  as  a dream,  yet  is  it  much  more  at- 
tractive than  the  more  regular  dramatic  pieces  of 
the  same  author,  for  the  reason  that  it  operates  a 
wonderful  relief  to  the  mind  from  the  routine  of 
customary  images, — awakens  the  reader’s  inven- 
tion and  fancy  by  the  wild  freedom  of  the  design, 
and  by  the  unceasing  succession  of  brisk  shocks  of 
surprise. 

The  universal  nature,  too  strong  for  the  petty 
nature  of  the  bard,  sits  on  his  neck  and  writes 
through  his  hand  ; so  that  when  he  seems  to  vent 
a mere  caprice  and  wild  romance,  the  issue  is  an 
exact  allegory.  Hence  Plato  said  that  ‘‘poets 
utter  great  and  wise  things  which  they  do  not 
themselves  understand.”  All  the  fictions  of  tho 
Middle  Age  explain  themselves  as  a masked  or 
frolic  expression  of  that  which  in  grave  earnest 
the  mind  of  that  period  toiled  to  achieve.  Magic, 
and  all  that  is  ascribed  to  it,  is  manifestly  a deep 
presentiment  of  the  powers  of  science.  The  shoes 
of  swiftness,  the  sword  of  sharpness,  the  power  of 
subduing  the  elements,  of  using  the  secret  virtues 
of  minerals,  of  understanding  the  voices  of  birds, 
are  the  obscure  efforts  of  the  mind  in  a right  di- 
rection. The  preternatural  prowess  of  the  hero, 
the  gift  of  perpetual  youth,  and  the  like,  are  alike 


34 


ESSAY  /. 


the  endeavor  of  the  human  spirit  to  bend  the 
shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind.” 

In  Perceforest  and  Amadis  de  Gaul,  a garland 
and  a rose  bloom  on  the  head  of  her  who  is  faith- 
ful, and  fade  on  the  brow  of  the  inconstant.  In 
the  story  of  the  Boy  and  the  Mantle,  even  a ma- 
ture reader  may  be  surprised  with  a glow  of  virtu- 
ous pleasure  at  the  triumph  of  the  gentle  Genelas; 
and  indeed,  all  the  postulates  of  elfin  annals,  that 
the  Fairies  do  not  like  to  be  named;  that  their 
gifts  are  capricious  and  not  to  be  trusted  ; that 
who  seeks  a treasure  must  not  speak  ; and  the  like, 
I find  true  in  Concord,  however  they  might  be  in 
Cornwall  or  Bretagne. 

Is  it  otherwise  in  the  newest  romance?  I read 
the  Bride  of  Lammermoor.  Sir  William  Ashton 
is  a mask  for  a vulgar  temptation,  Ravenswood 
Castle,  a fine  name  for  proud  poverty,  and  the 
foreign  mission  of  state  only  a Bunyan  disguise 
for  honest  industry.  We  may  all  shoot  a wild  bull 
that  would  toss  the  good  and  beautiful,  by  fight- 
ing down  the  unjust  and  sensual.  Lucy  Ashton 
is  another  name  for  fidelity,  which  is  always  beau- 
tiful and  always  liable  to  calamity  in  this  world. 

But  along  with  the  civil  and  metaphysical  history 
of  man,  another  history  goes  daily  forward — that 
of  the  external  world, — in  which  he  is  not  less 
strictly  implicated.  He  is  the  compend  of  time: 
he  is  also  the  correlative  of  nature.  The  powder 
of  man  consists  in  the  multitude  of  his  affinities, 
in  the  fact  that  his  life  is  intertwined  wfith  the 
whole  chain  of  organic  and  inorganic  being.  In 


HISTORY. 


3S 


the  age  of  the  Caesars,  out  from  the  Forum  at 
Rome  proceeded  the  great  highways  north,  south, 
east,  west,  to  the  centre  of  every  province  of  the 
empire,  making  each  market-town  of  Persia,  Spain 
and  Britain,  pervious  to  the  soldiers  of  the  capi- 
tal : so  out  of  the  human  heart  go,  as  it  were, 
highways  to  the  heart  of  every  object  in  nature, 
to  reduce  it  under  the  dominion  of  man.  A man 
is  a bundle  of  relations,  a knot  of  roots,  whose 
flower  and  fruitage  is  the  world.  All  his  faculties 
refer  to  natures  out  of  him.  All  his  faculties 
predict  the  world  he  is  to  inhabit,  as  the  fins  of 
the  fish  foreshow  that  water  exists,  or  the  wings 
of  an  eagle  in  the  egg  presuppose  a medium  like 
air.  Insulate  and  you  destroy  him.  He  cannot 
live  without  a world.  Put  Napoleon  in  an  island 
prison,  let  his  faculties  find  no  men  to  act  on,  no 
Alps  to  climb,  no  stake  to  play  for,  and  he  would 
beat  the  air  and  appear  stupid.  Transport  him  to 
large  countries,  dense  population,  complex  inter- 
ests, and  antagonistic  power,  and  you  shall  see  that 
the  man  Napoleon,  bounded,  that  is,  by  such  a 
profile  and  outline,  is  not  the  virtual  Napoleon. 
This  is  but  Talbot’s  shadow : 

His  substance  is  not  here : 

For  what  you  see  is  but  the  smallest  part, 

And  least  proportion  of  humanity : 

But  were  the  whole  frame  here, 

It  is  of  such  a spacious,  lofty  pitch, 

Your  roof  were  not  sufficient  to  contain  it. 

Henry  FZ 

Columbus  needs  a planet  to  shape  his  course 


36 


ESSAY  /. 


upon.  Newton  and  Laplace  need  myriads  of  ages 
and  thick-strown  celestial  areas.  One  may  say  a 
gravitating  solar  system  is  already  prophesied  in 
the  nature  of  Newton’s  mind.  Not  less  does  the 
brain  of  Davy  and  Gay  Lussac  from  childhood  ex- 
ploring always  the  affinities  and  repulsions  of  par- 
ticles, anticipate  the  laws  of  organization.  Does 
not  the  eye  of  the  human  embryo  predict  the 
light?  the  ear  of  Handel  predict  the  witchcraft  of 
harmonic  sound?  Do  not  the  constructive  fingers 
of  Watt,  Fulton,  Whittemore,  Arkwright  predict 
the  fusible,  hard,  and  temperable  texture  of  metals, 
the  properties  of  stone,  water  and  wood  ? the 
lovely  attributes  of  the  maiden  child  predict  the 
refinements  and  decorations  of  civil  society? 
Here  also  we  are  reminded  of  the  action  of  man 
on  man.  A mind  might  ponder  its  thoughts  for 
ages,  and  not  gain  so  much  self-knowledge  as  the 
passion  of  love  shall  teach  it  in  a day.  Who 
knows  himself  before  he  has  been  thrilled  with  in- 
dignation at  an  outrage,  or  has  heard  an  eloquent 
tongue,  or  has  shared  the  throb  of  thousands  in  a 
national  exultation  or  alarm  ? No  man  can  ante- 
date his  experience,  or  guess  what  faculty  or  feel- 
ing a new  object  shall  unlock,  any  more  than  he 
can  draw  to-day  the  face  of  a person  whom  he 
shall  see  to-morrow  for  the  first  time. 

I will  not  now  go  behind  the  general  statement 
to  explore  the  reason  of  this  correspondency. 
Let  it  suffice  that  in  the  light  of  these  two  facts, 
namely,  that  the  mind  is  One ; and  that  nature 


HISTORY.  37 

is  its  correlative,  history  is  to  be  read  and 
written. 

Thus  in  all  ways  does  the  soul  concentrate 
and  reproduce  its  treasures  for  each  pupil,  for 
each  new-born  man.  He,  too,  shall  pass 
through  the  whole  cycle  of  experience.  He 
shall  collect  into  a focus  the  rays  of  nature. 
History  no  longer  shall  be  a dull  book.  It 
shall  walk  incarnate  in  every  just  and  wise  man. 
You  shall  not  tell  me  by  languages  and  titles 
a catalogue  of  the  volumes  you  have  read. 
You  shall  make  me  feel  what  periods  you  have 
lived.  A man  shall  be  the  Temple  of  Fame. 
He  shall  walk,  as  the  poets  have  described  that 
goddess,  in  a robe  painted  all  over  with  won- 
derful events  and  experiences  ; — his  own  form  and 
features  by  their  exalted  intelligence  shall  be  that 
variegated  vest.  I shall  find  in  him  the  Fore- 
world ; in  his  childhood  the  Age  of  Gold ; the 
Apples  of  Knowledge ; the  Argonautic  Expedi- 
tion ; the  calling  of  Abraham  ; the  building  of  the 
Temple  ; the  Advent  of  Christ ; Dark  Ages  ; the 
Revival  of  Letters  ; the  Reformation ; the  dis- 
covery of  new  lands,  the  opening  of  new  sciences, 
and  new  regions  in  man.  He  shall  be  the  priest 
of  Pan,  and  bring  with  him  into  humble  cottages 
the  blessing  of  the  morning  stars  and  all  the 
recorded  benefits  of  heaven  and  earth. 

Is  there  somewhat  overweening  in  this  claim  ? 
Then  I reject  all  I have  written,  for  what  is  the 
use  of  pretending  to  know  what  we  know  not  ? 
But  it  is  the  fault  of  our  rhetoric  that  we  can- 


3« 


ESSAY  L 


not  strongly  state  one  fact  without  seeming  to 
belie  some  other.  I hold  our  actual  knowledge 
very  cheap.  Hear  the  rats  in  the  wall,  see  the 
lizard  on  the  fence,  the  fungus  under  foot,  the 
lichen  on  the  log.  What  do  I know  sympa- 
thetically, morally,  of  either  of  these  worlds  of 
life  ? As  long  as  the  Caucasian  man — perhaps 
longer — these  creatures  have  kept  their  counsel 
beside  him,  and  there  is  no  record  of  any  word  or 
sign  that  has  passed  from  one  to  the  other.  Nay, 
what  does  history  yet  record  of  the  metaphysical 
annals  of  man?  What  light  does  it  shed  on  those 
mysteries  which  we  hide  under  the  names  Death 
and  Immortality?  Yet  every  history  should  be 
written  in  a wisdom  which  divined  the  range  of 
our  affinities  and  looked  at  facts  as  symbols.  I 
am  ashamed  to  see  what  a shallow  village  tale  our 
so-called  History  is.  How  many  times  we  must 
say  Rome,  and  Paris,  and  Constantinople.  What 
does  Rome  know  of  rat  and  lizard  ? What  are 
Olympiads  and  Consulates  to  these  neighboring 
systems  of  being?  Nay,  what  food  or  experience 
or  succor  have  they  for  the  Esquimau  seal-hunter, 
for  the  Kanaka  in  his  canoe,  for  the  fisherman,  the 
stevedore,  the  porter? 

Broader  and  deeper  we  must  write  our  annals — 
from  an  ethical  reformation,  from  an  influx  of  the 
ever  new,  ever  sanative  conscience, — if  we  would 
trulier  express  our  central  and  wide-related 
nature,  instead  of  this  old  chronology  of 
selfishness  and  pride  to  which  we  have  too  long 
lent  our  eyes.  Already  that  day  exists  for  us. 


HISTORY. 


39 


shines  in  on  us  at  unawares,  but  the  path  of  science 
and  of  letters  is  not  the  way  into  nature,  but  from 
it,  rather.  The  idiot,  the  Indian,  the  child,  and 
unschooled  farmer’s  boy,  comes  much  nearer 
to  these, — understand  them  better  than  the  dis’ 
sector  or  the  antiquary. 


iVjiir  :t)  ^ 

^ ^UIa  .‘.i;;  '-:i  .^n.;.'..--;, ;•? 

■^.i*'*r>^-iii ' ■■  i\^>i  if-iu  ■ •<:;;i.f<»o  v h':<  ■ ■ 

''^ailb..'j)i' :Tnj-  i iih • ♦:••■ 

; V. :•  -..■'  • ,:''n)>ifelra/i^'^a.;  'a, 

■ ^ .f ,.  :. ' 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


Ne  te  quaesiveris  extra. 


“ Man  is  his  own  star,  and  the  soul  that  can 
Kender  an  honest  and  perfect  man, 

Command  all  light,  all  influence,  all  fate, 
Nothing  to  him  falls  early  or  too  late. 

Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill. 

Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still.*’ 

Epilogue  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Honest  Man's  Fortune, 


Oast  the  bantling  on  the  rocks, 
Suckle  him  with  the  she-wolf’s  teat: 
Wintered  with  the  hawk  and  fox, 
Power  and  speed  be  hands  and  feet. 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


I BEAD  the  other  day  some  verses  written  by 
an  eminent  painter  which  were  original  and  not 
conventional.  Always  the  soul  hears  an  admoni- 
tion in  such  lines,  let  the  subject  be  what  it  may. 
The  sentiment  they  instil  is  of  more  value  than 
any  thought  they  may  contain.  To  believe  ycur 
own  thought,  to  believe  that  what  is  true  for  you 
in  your  private  heart,  is  true  for  all  men, — that  is 
genius.  Speak  your  latent  conviction  and  it  shall 
be  the  universal  sense ; for  always  the  inmost 
becomes  the  outmost, — and  our  first  thought  is 
rendered  back  to  us  by  the  trumpets  of  the  Last 
Judgment.  Familiar  as  the  voice  of  the  mind  is 
to  each,  the  highest  merit  we  ascribe  to  Moses, 
Plato,  and  Milton,  is  that  they  set  at  naught  books 
and  traditions,  and  spoke  not  what  men,  but  what 
they,  thought.  A man  should  learn  to  detect  and 
watch  that  gleam  of  light  which  flashes  across  his 
mind  from  within,  more  than  the  lustre  of  the 
firmament  of  bards  and  sages.  Yet  he  dismisses 
without  notice  his  thought,  because  it  is  his.  In 
every  work  of  genius  we  recognize  our  own 

(43) 


ESSAY  II. 


* 44 

rejected  thoughts  : they  come  back  to  us  with  a 
certain  alienated  majesty.  Great  works  of  art 
have  no  more  affecting  lesson  for  us  than  this. 
They  teach  us  to  abide  by  our  spontaneous  im- 
pression with  good  humored  inflexibility  then 
most  when  the  whole  cry  of  voices  is  on  tlie 
other  side.  Else,  to-morrow  a stranger  will  say 
with  masterly  good  sense  precisely  what  we  have 
thought  and  felt  all  the  time,  and  we  shall  be 
forced  to  take  with  shame  our  own  opinion  from 
another. 

There  is  a time  in  every  man’s  education 
when  he  arrives  at  the  conviction  that  envy  is 
ignorance ; that  imitation  is  suicide ; that  he 
must  take  himself  for  better,  for  worse,  as  his 
portion  ; that  though  the  wide  universe  is  full 
ot  good,  no  kernel  of  nourishing  corn  can  come 
to  him  but  through  his  toil  bestow^ed  on  that 
plot  of  ground  which  is  given  to  him  to  till. 
The  power  which  resides  in  him  is  new  in  nature, 
and  none  but  he  knows  what  that  is  which  he  can 
do,  nor  does  he  know  until  he  has  tried.  Not  for 
nothing  one  face,  one  character,  one  fact  makes 
much  impression  on  him,  and  another  none.  It  is 
not  without  pre-established  harmony,  this  sculpture 
in  the  memory.  The  eye  was  placed  where  one 
ray  should  fall,  that  it  might  testify  of  that  par- 
ticular ray.  Bravely  let  him  speak  the  utmost 
syllable  of  his  confession.  We  but  half  express 
ourselves,  and  are  ashamed  of  that  divine  idea 
which  each  of  us  rejiresents.  It  may  be  safely 
trusted  as  proportionate  and  of  good  issues,  so  it 


SELF-RELIANCE, 


45 


be  faithfully  imparted,  but  God  will  not  have  his 
work  made  manifest  by  cowards.  It  needs  a di- 
vine man  to  exhibit  anything  divine.  A man  is 
relieved  and  gay  when  he  has  put  his  heart  into 
his  work  and  done  his  best;  but  what  he  has  said 
or  done  otherwise,  shall  give  him  no  peace.  It 
is  a deliverance  which  does  not  deliver.  In  the 
attempt  his  genius  deserts  him;  no  muse  be- 
friends ; no  invention,  no  hope. 

Trust  thyself : every  heart  vibrates  to  that  iron 
string.  Accept  the  place  the  divine  Providence 
has  found  for  you ; the  society  of  your  contem- 
poraries, the  connection  of  events.  Great  men  have 
always  done  so  and  confided  themselves  childlike 
to  the  genius  of  their  age,  betraying  their  percep- 
tion that  the  Eternal  was  stirring  at  their  heart, 
working  through  their  hands,  predominating  in 
all  their  being.  And  we  are  now  men,  and  must 
accept  in  the  highest  mind  the  same  transcendent 
destinj^ ; and  not  pinched  in  a corner,  not  cowards 
fleeing  before  a revolution,  but  redeemers  and 
benefactors,  pious  aspirants  to  be  noble  clay  plas- 
tic under  the  Almighty  effort,  let  us  advance  and 
advance  on  Chaos  and  the  Dark. 

What  pretty  oracles  nature  yields  us  on  this 
text  in  the  face  and  behavior  of  children,  babes 
and  even  brutes.  That  divided  and  rebel  mind, 
that  distrust  of  a sentiment  because  our  arith- 
metic has  computed  the  strength  and  means 
opposed  to  our  purpose,  these  have  not.  Their 
mind  being  whole,  their  eye  is  as  yet  uncon^ 
quered,  and  when  we  look  in  their  faces,  we  are 


46 


ESSAY  II. 


disconcerted.  Infancy  conforms  to  nobody ; all 
conform  to  it,  so  that  one  babe  commonly  makes 
four  or  five  out  of  the  adults  who  prattle  and 
play  to  it.  So  God  has  armed  youth  and  puberty 
and  manhood  no  less  with  its  own  piquancy  and 
charm,  and  made  it  enviable  and  gracious  and  its 
claims  not  to  be  put  by,  if  it  will  stand  by  itself. 
Do  not  think  the  youth  has  no  force  because 
he  cannot  speak  to  you  and  me.  Hark ! in  the 
next  room,  who  spoke  so  clear  and  emphatic? 
Good  Heaven ! it  is  he ! it  is  that  very  lump  of 
bashfulness  and  phlegm  which  for  weeks  has  done 
nothing  but  eat  when  you  were  by,  that  now 
rolls  out  these  words  like  bell-strokes.  It  seems 
lie  knows  how  to  speak  to  his  contemporaries. 
Bashful  or  bold,  then,  he  will  know  how  to  make 
us  seniors  very  unnecessary. 

The  nonchalance  of  boys  who  are  sure  of  a 
dinner,  and  would  disdain  as  much  as  a lord  to 
do  or  say  aught  to  conciliate  one,  is  the  healthy 
attitude  of  human  nature.  How  is  a boy  the 
master  of  society  ! — independent,  irresponsible, 
looking  out  from  his  corner  on  such  people  and 
facts  as  pass  by,  he  tries  and  sentences  them  on 
their  merits,  in  the  swift  summary  way  of  boys, 
as  good,  bad,  interesting,  silly,  eloquent,  trouble- 
some. He  cumbers  himself  never  about  conse-" 
quences,  about  interests  : he  gives  an  indepen- 
dent, genuine  verdict.  You  must  court  him  : he 
does  not  court  you.  But  the  man  is,  as  it  were, 
clapped  into  jail  by  his  consciousness.  As  soon 
as  he  has  once  acted  or  spoken  with  eclat,  he  is 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


47 


a committed  person,  watched  by  the  sympathy 
or  the  hatred  of  hundreds  whose  affections  must 
now  enter  into  his  account.  There  is  no  Lethe 
for  this.  Ah,  that  he  could  pass  again  into  his 
neutral,  godlike  independence  ! Who  can  thus 
lose  all  pledge,  and  having  observed,  observe 
again  from  the  same  unaffected,  unbiased,  unbrib- 
able,  unaffrighted  innocence,  must  always  be  for- 
midable, must  always  engage  the  poet’s  and  the 
man’s  regards.  Of  such  an  immortal  youth  the 
force  would  be  felt.  He  would  utter  opinions  on 
all  passing  affairs,  which  being  seen  to  be  not  pri- 
vate but  necessary,  would  sink  like  darts  into  the 
ear  of  men,  and  put  them  in  fear. 

These  are  the  voices  which  we  hear  in  solitude, 
but  they  grow  faint  and  inaudible  as  we  enter  into 
the  world.  Society  everywhere  is  in  conspiracy 
against  the  manhood  of  every  one  of  its  members. 
Society  is  a joint-stock  company  in  which  the 
members  agree  for  the  better  securing  of  his  bread 
to  each  shareholder,  to  surrender  the  liberty  and 
culture  of  the  eater.  The  virtue  in  most  request 
is  conformity.  Self-reliance  is  its  aversion.  It 
loves  not  realities  and  creators,  but  names  and  cus- 
toms. 

Whoso  would  be  a man  must  be  a nonconform- 
ist. He  who  would  gather  immortal  palms  must 
not  be  hindered  by  the  name  of  goodness,  but  must 
explore  if  it  be  goodness.  Nothing  is  at  last 
sacred  but  the  integrity  of  our  own  mind.  Ab- 
solve you  to  yourself,  and  you  shall  have  the  suff- 
rage of  the  world.  I remember  an  answer  which 


48 


ESSAV  IL 


when  quite  young  I was  prompted  to  make  to  a 
valued  adviser  who  was  wont  to  importune  me 
with  the  dear  old  doctrines  of  the  church.  On 
my  saying,  ‘‘What  have  I to  do  with  the  sacred- 
ness of  traditions,  if  I live  wholly  from  within  ? ” 
my  friend  suggested — “ But  these  impulses  may 
be  from  below,  not  from  above.”  I replied,  They^ 
do  not  seem  to  me  to  be  such ; but  if  I am  the  devil’s 
child,  I will  live  then  from  the  devil.”  No  law 
can  be  sacred  to  me  but  that  of  my  nature.  Good 
and  bad  are  but  names  very  readily  transferable 
to  that  or  this ; the  only  right  is  what  is  after 
my  constitution,  the  only  wrong  what  is  against 
it.  A man  is  to  carry  himself  in  the  presence 
of  all  opposition  as  if  every  thing  were  titular 
and  ephemeral  but  he.  I am  ashamed  to  think 
how  easily  we  capitulate  to  badges  and  names, 
to  large  societies  and  dead  institutions.  Every 
decent  and  well-spoken  individual  affects  and 
sways  me  more  than  is  right.  I ought  to  go  up- 
right and  vital,  and  speak  the  rude  truth  in  all 
ways.  If  malice  and  vanity  wear  the  coat  of 
philanthropy,  shall  that  pass  ? If  an  angry  bigot 
assumes  this  bountiful  cause  of  Abolition,  and 
comes  to  me  with  his  last  news  from  Barbadoes, 
why  should  I not  say  to  him,  “ Go  love  thy  infant ; 
love  thy  wood-chopper ; be  good-natured  and 
modest ; have  that  grace  ; and  never  varnish  your 
hard,  uncharitable  ambition  with  this  incredible 
tenderness  for  black  folk  a thousand  miles  off.  Thy 
love  afar  is  spite  at  home.”  Rough  and  graceless 
would  be  such  greeting,  but  truth  is  handsomer 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


49 


than  the  affectation  of  love.  Your  goodness 
must  have  some  edge  to  it — else  it  is  none.  The 
doctrine  of  hatred  must  be  preached  as  the 
counteraction  of  the  doctrine  of  love  when  that 
pules  and  whines.  I shun  father  and  mother  and 
wife  and  brother,  when  my  genius  calls  me.  I 
would  write  on  the  lintels  of  the  door-post,  Whim. 
I hope  it  is  somewhat  better  than  whim  at  last, 
but  we  cannot  spend  the  day  in  explanation.  Ex- 
pect me  not  to  show  cause  why  I seek  or  why  I 
exclude  company.  Then,  again,  do  not  tell  me, 
as  a good  man  did  to-day,  of  my  obligation  to  put 
all  poor  men  in  good  situations.  Are  they  my 
poor?  I tell  thee,  thou  foolish  philanthropist, 
that  I grudge  the  dollar,  the  dime,  the  cent  I give 
to  such  men  as  do  not  belong  to  me  and  to  whom 
I do  not  belong.  There  is  a class  of  persons  to 
whom  by  all  spiritual  affinity  I am  bought  and 
sold ; for  them  I will  go  to  prison,  if  need  be  ; but 
your  miscellaneous  popular  charities ; the  educa- 
tion at  college  of  fools ; the  building  of  meeting- 
houses to  the  vain  end  to  which  many  now  stand ; 
alms  to  sots ; and  the  thousandfold  Kelief  Socie- 
ties ; — though  I confess  with  shame  I sometimes 
succumb  and  give  the  dollar,  it  is  a wicked  dollar 
which  by-and-by  I shall  have  the  manhood  to 
withhold. 

Virtues  are  in  the  popular  estimate  rather  the 
exception  than  the  rule.  There  is  the  man  and 
his  virtues.  Men  do  what  is  called  a good  action, 
as  some  piece  of  courage  or  charity,  much  as  they 
would  pay  a fine  in  expiation  of  daily  non-appear- 

4 


ESSAY  II. 


SO 

ance  on  parade.  Their  works  are  done  as  an 
apology  or  extenuation  of  their  living  in  the 
world, — as  invalids  and  the  insane  pay  a high 
board.  Their  virtues  are  penances.  1 do  not 
wish  to  expiate,  but  to  live.  My  life  is  not  an 
apology,  but  a life.  It  is  for  itself  and  not  for  a 
spectacle.  I much  prefer  that  it  should  be  of  a 
lower  strain,  so  it  be  genuine  and  equal,  than  that 
it  should  be  glittering  and  unsteady.  I wish  it  to 
be  sound  and  sweet,  and  not  to  need  diet  and 
bleeding.  My  life  should  be  unique;  it  should  be 
an  alms,  a battle,  a conquest,  a medicine.  I ask 
primary  evidence  that  you  are  a man,  and  refuse 
this  appeal  from  the  man  to  his  actions.  I know 
that  for  myself  it  makes  no  difference  whether  I 
do  or  forbear  those  actions  which  are  reckoned  ex- 
cellent. I cannot  consent  to  pay  for  a privilege 
where  I have  intrinsic  right.  Few  and  mean  as 
my  gifts  may  be,  I actually  am,  and  do  not  need 
for  my  own  assurance  or  the  assurance  of  my  fel- 
lows any  secondary  testimony. 

What  I must  do,  is  all  that  concerns  me,  not 
what  the  people  think.  This  rule,  equally  ardu- 
ous in  actual  and  in  intellectual  life,  may  serve  for 
the  whole  distinction  between  greatness  and  mean- 
ness. It  is  the  harder,  because  you  will  always 
find  those  who  think  they  know  what  is  your  duty 
better  than  you  know  it.  It  is  easy  in  the  world 
to  live  after  the  w^orld’s  opinion ; it  is  easy  in  soli- 
tude to  live  after  our  own  ; but  the  great  man  is 
he  who  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  keeps  with  per- 
fect sweetness  the  independence  of  solitude. 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


51 


The  objection  to  conforming  to  usages  that  liave 
become  dead  to  you,  is,  that  it  scatters  your  force. 
It  loses  your  time  and  blurs  the  impression  of 
your  character.  If  you  maintain  a dead  church, 
contribute  to  a dead  Bible-Society,  vote  with  a 
great  party  either  for  the  Government  or  against 
it,  spread  your  table  like  base  housekeepers,— 
under  all  these  screens,  I have  difficulty  to  detect 
the  precise  man  you  are.  And,  of  course,  so  much 
force  is  withdrawn  from  your  proper  life.  But  do 
your  thing,  and  I shall  know  you.  Do  your  work, 
and  yon  shall  reinforce  yourself.  A man  must 
consider  what  a blind-man’s-buff  is  this  game  of 
conformity.  If  I know  your  sect,  I anticipate 
your  argument.  I hear  a preacher  announce  for 
his  text  and  topic  the  expediency  of  one  of  the 
institutions  of  his  church.  Do  I not  know  before- 
hand that  not  possibly  can  he  say  a new  and  spon- 
taneous word  ? Do  I not  know  that  with  all  this 
ostentation  of  examining  the  grounds  of  the  insti- 
tution, he  will  do  no  such  thing  ? Do  I not  know 
that  he  is  pledged  to  himself  not  to  look  but  afc 
one  side;  the  permitted  side,  not  as  a man,  but  as 
a parish  minister?  He  is  a retained  attorney,  and 
these  airs  of  the  bench  are  the  emptiest  affecta- 
tion. Well,  most  men  have  bound  their  eyes  with 
one  or  another  handkerchief,  and  attached  them- 
selves to  some  one  of  these  communities  of  opin- 
ion. This  conformity  makes  them  not  false  in  a 
few  particulars,  authors  of  a few  lies,  but  false  in 
all  particulars.  Their  every  truth  is  not  quite 
true.  Their  two  is  not  the  real  two,  their  four 


52 


ESSAY  IL 


not  the  real  four : so  that  every  word  they  say 
chagrins  us,  and  we  know  not  where  to  begin  to 
set  them  right.  Meantime  nature  is  not  slow  to 
equip  us  in  the  prison-uniform  of  the  party  to 
which  we  adhere.  We  come  to  wear  one  cut  of 
face  and  figure,  and  acquire  by  degrees  the  gen- 
tlest asinine  expression.  There  is  a mortifying 
experience  in  particular  which  does  not  fail  to 
wreak  itself  also  in  the  general  history ; I mean, 
^‘ihe  foolish  face  of  praise,”  the  forced  smile 
which  we  put  on  in  company  where  we  do  not  feel 
at  ease  in  answer  to  conversation  which  does  not 
interest  us.  The  muscles,  not  spontaneously 
moved,  but  moved  by  a low  usurping  wilfulness, 
grow  tight  about  the  outline  of  the  face  and  make 
the  most  disagreeable  sensation,  a sensation  of  re- 
buke and  warning  which  no  brave  young  man  will 
suffer  twice. 

For  non-conformity  the  world  whips  you  with 
its  displeasure.  And  therefore  a man  must  know 
how  to  estimate  a sour  face.  The  bystanders  look 
askance  on  him  in  the  public  street  or  in  the 
friend’s  parlor.  If  this  aversation  had  its  origin 
in  contempt  and  resistance  like  his  own,  he  might 
well  go  home  with  a sad  countenance;  but  the 
sour  faces  of  the  multitude,  like  their  sweet  faces, 
have  no  deep  cause,— disguise  no  god,  but  are  put 
on  and  off  as  the  wind  blows,  and  a newspaper 
directs.  Yet  is  the  discontent  of  the  multitude 
more  formidable  than  that  of  the  senate  and  the 
college.  It  is  easy  enough  for  a firm  man  who 
knows  the  world  to  brook  the  rage  of  the  culti- 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


53 


vated  classes.  Their  rage  is  decorous  and  pru- 
dent, for  they  are  timid  as  being  very  vulnerable 
themselves.  But  when  to  their  feminine  rage  the 
indignation  of  the  people  is  added,  when  the  igno- 
rant and  the  poor  are  aroused,  when  the  unintelli- 
gent brute  force  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  society 
is  made  to  growl  and  mow,  it  needs  the  habit  of 
magnanimity  and  religion  to  treat  it  godlike  as  a 
trifle  of  no  concernment. 

The  other  terror  that  scares  us  from  self- trust 
is  our  consistency ; a reverence  for  our  past  act  or 
word,  because  the  eyes  of  others  have  no  other 
data  for  computing  our  orbit  than  our  past  acts, 
and  we  are  loath  to  disappoint  them. 

But  why  should  you  keep  your  head  over  your 
shoulder?  Why  drag  about  this  monstrous  corpse 
of  your  memory,  lest  you  contradict  somewhat 
you  have  stated  in  this  or  that  public  place?  Sup- 
pose you  should  contradict  yourself ; what  then  ? 
It  seems  to  be  a rule  of  wisdom  never  to  rely  on 
your  memory  alone,  scarcely  even  in  acts  of  pure 
memory,  but  bring  the  past  for  judgment  into  the 
thousand-eyed  present,  and  live  ever  in  a new  day. 
Trust  your  emotion.  In  your  metaphysics  you 
have  denied  personality  to  the  Deity  : yet  when 
the  devout  motions  of  the  soul  come,  yield  to  them 
heart  and  life,  though  they  should  clothe  God  with 
shape  and  color.  Leave  your  theory  as  Joseph  his 
coat  in  the  hand  of  the  harlot,  and  flee. 

A foolish  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  little 
minds,  adored  by  little  statesmen  and  philosophers 
and  divines.  With  consistency  a great  soul  has 


54 


ESSAY  II. 


simply  nothing  to  do.  He  may  as  well  concern 
himself  with  his  shadow  on  the  wall.  Out  upon 
your  guarded  lips  ! Sew  them  up  with  packthread, 
do.  Else,  if  you  would  be  a man,  speak  what  you 
think  to-day  in  words  as  hard  as  cannon  balls,  and 
to-morrow  speak  what  to-morrow  thinks  in  hard 
words  again,  though  it  contradict  everything  you 
said  to-day.  Ah,  then,  exclaim  the  aged  ladies, 
you  shall  be  sure  to  be  misunderstood.  Misunder- 
stood ! It  is  a right  fool’s  word.  Is  it  so  bad  then 
to  be  misunderstood?  Pythagoras  was  misunder- 
stood, and  Socrates,  and  Jesus,  and  Luther,  and 
Copernicus,  jind  Galileo,  and  Newton,  and  every 
pure  and  wise  spirit  that  ever  took  flesh.  To  be 
great  is  to  be  misunderstood. 

I suppose  no  man  can  violate  his  nature.  All 
the  sallies  of  his  will  are  rounded  in  by  the  law  of 
his  being  as  the  inequalities  of  Andes  and  Him- 
maleh  are  insignificant  in  the  curve  of  the  sphere. 
Nor  does  it  matter  how  you  gauge  and  try  him. 
A character  is  like  an  acrostic  or  Alexandrian 
stanza; — read  it  forward,  backward,  or  across,  it 
still  spells  the  same  thing.  In  this  pleasing  con- 
trite wood-life  which  God  allows  me,  let  me  record 
day  by  day  my  honest  thought  without  prospect 
or  reti  ospect,  and,  I cannot  doubt,  it  will  be  found 
symmetrical,  though  I mean  it  not,  and  see  it  not. 
My  book  should  smell  of  pines  and  resound  with 
the  hum  of  insects.  The  swallow  over  my  win- 
dow should  interweave  that  thread  or  straw  he 
carries  in  his  bill  into  my  web  also.  We  pass  for 
what  we  are.  Character  teaches  above  our  wills. 


SELF-RELIANCE, 


55 


Men  imagine  that  they  communicate  their  virtue 
or  vice  only  by  overt  actions  and  do  not  see  that 
virtue  or  vice  emit  a breath  every  moment. 

Fear  never  but  you  shall  be  consistent  in  what- 
ever variety  of  actions,  so  they  be  each  honest  and 
natural  in  their  hour.  For  of  one  will,  the  actions 
will  be  harmonious,  however  unlike  they  seem. 
These  varieties  are  lost  sight  of  when  seen  at  a 
little  distance,  at  a little  height  of  thought.  One 
tendency  unites  them  all.  The  voyage  of  the  best 
ship  is  a zigzag  line  of  a hundred  tacks.  This  is 
only  microscopic  criticism.  See  the  line  from  a 
sufficient  distance,  and  it  straightens  itself  to  the 
average  tendency.  Your  genuine  action  will  ex- 
plain itself  and  will  explain  your  other  genuine 
actions.  Your  conformity  explains  nothing.  Act 
singly,  and  what  you  have  already  done  singly, 
will  justify  you  now.  Greatness  always  appeals 
to  the  future.  If  I can  be  great  enough  now  to 
do  right  and  scorn  eyes,  I must  have  done  so 
much  right  before,  as  to  defend  me  now.  Be  it 
how  it  will,  do  right  now.  Always  scorn  appear- 
ances, and  you  always  may.  The  force  of  charac- 
ter is  cumulative.  All  the  foregone  days  of  virtue 
work  their  health  into  this.  What  makes  the 
majesty  of  the  heroes  of  the  senate  and  the  field, 
which  so  fills  the  imagination?  The  conscious* 
ness  of  a train  of  great  days  and  victories  behind. 
There  they  all  stand  and  shed  an  united  light  on 
the  advancing  actor.  He  is  attended  as  by  a vis- 
ible escort  of  angels  to  every  man’s  eye.  That  is 
it  which  throws  thunder  into  Chatham’s  voice, 


56 


ESSAV  II. 


and  dignity  into  Washington’s  port,  and  America 
into  Adam’s  eye.  Honor  is  venerable  to  us  be- 
cause it  is  no  ephemeris.  It  is  always  ancient  vir- 
tue. We  worship  it  to-day,  because  it  is  not  of 
to-day.  We  love  it  and  pay  it  homage,  because 
it  is  not  a trap  for  our  love  and  homage,  but  is 
self-dependent,  seltderived,  and  therefore  of  an 
old  immaculate  pedigree,  even  if  shown  in  a young 
person. 

I hope  in  these  days  we  have  heard  the  last  of 
conformity  and  consistency.  Let  the  words  be 
gazetted  and  ridiculous  henceforward.  Instead  of 
the  gong  for  dinner,  let  us  hear  a whistle  from  the 
Spartan  fife.  Let  us  bow  and  apologize  never 
more.  A great  man  is  coming  to  eat  at  my  house. 
I do  not  wish  to  please  him ; I wish  that  he  should 
wish  to  please  me.  I will  stand  here  for  human- 
ity, and  though  I would  make  it  kind,  I would 
make  it  true.  Let  us  affront  and  reprimand  the 
smooth  mediocrity  and  squalid  contentment  of  the 
times,  and  hurl  in  the  face  of  custom,  and  trade, 
and  office,  the  fact  which  is  the  upshot  of  all  his- 
tory, that  there  is  a great  responsible  Thinker  and 
Actor  moving  wherever  moves  a man  ; that  a true 
man  belongs  to  no  other  time  or  place,  but  is  the 
centre  of  things.  Where  he  is,  there  is  nature. 
He  measures  you,  and  all  men,  and  all  events. 
You  are  constrained  to  accept  his  standard.  Ordi- 
narily everybody  in  society  reminds  us  of  some- 
what else  or  of  some  other  person.  Character, 
reality,  reminds  you  of  nothing  else.  It  takes 
place  of  the  whole  creation.  The  man  must  be  so 


SELF-RELIANCE, 


57 


much  that  he  must  make  all  circumstances  indif- 
ferent,— put  all  means  into  the  shade.  This  all 
great  men  are  and  do.  Every  true  man  is  a cause, 
a country,  and  an  age ; requires  infinite  spaces 
and  numbers  and  time  fully  to  accomplish  his 
thought; — and  posterity  seem  to  follow  his  steps 
as  a procession.  A man  Caesar  is  born,  and  for 
ages  after,  we  have  a Roman  Empire.  Christ  is 
born,  and  millions  of  minds  so  grow  and  cleave  to 
his  genius,  that  he  is  confounded  with  virtue  and 
the  possible  of  man.  An  institution  is  the  length- 
ened shadow  of  one  man ; as,  the  Reformation,  of 
Luther;  Quakerism,  of  Fox;  Methodism,  of  Wes- 
ley ; Abolition,  of  Clarkson.  Scipio,  Milton  called 
the  height  of  Rome ; ” and  all  history  resolves 
itself  very  easily  into  the  biography  of  a few  stout 
and  earnest  persons. 

Let  a man  then  know  his  worth,  and  keep 
things  under  his  feet.  Let  him  not  peep  or  steal, 
or  skulk  up  and  down  with  the  air  of  a charity- 
boy,  a bastard,  or  an  interloper,  in  the  world 
which  exists  for  him.  But  the  man  in  the  street 
finding  no  worth  in  himself  which  corresponds  to 
the  force  which  built  a tower  or  sculptured  a mar- 
ble god,  feels  poor  when  he  looks  on  these.  To 
liin  a palace,  a statue,  or  a costly  book  have  an 
alien  and  forbidding  air,  much  like  a gay  equi- 
page, and  seem  to  say  like  that,  ‘‘  Who  are  you,  sir  ? ” 
Yet  they  all  are  his,  suito?  < for  his  notice,  peti- 
tioners to  his  faculties  that  tliey  will  come  out  and 
take  possession.  The  picture  waits  for  my  ver- 
dict; it  is  not  to  command  me,  but  I am  to  settle 


58 


ESSAV  //. 


its  claims  to  praise.  That  popular  fable  of  the  sot 
who  was  picked  up  dead  drunk  in  the  street,  car- 
ried to  the  duke’s  house,  washed  and  dressed  and 
laid  in  the  duke’s  bed,  and,  on  his  waking,  treated 
with  all  obsequious  ceremony  like  the  duke,  and 
assured  that  he  had  been  insane,^ — owes  its  popu- 
larity to  the  fact  that  it  symbolizes  so  well  the 
state  of  man,  who  is  in  the  world  a sort  of  sot,  out 
now  and  then  wakes  up,  exercises  his  reason,  and 
finds  himself  a true  prince. 

Our  reading  is  mendicant  and  sycophantic.  In 
history,  our  imagination  makes  fools  of  us,  plays 
us  false.  Kingdom  and  lordship,  power  and  es- 
tate are  a gaudier  vocabulary  than  private  John 
and  Edward  in  a small  house  and  common  day’s 
work  ; but  the  things  of  life  are  the  same  to  both  : 
the  sum  total  of  both  is  the  same.  Why  all  this 
deference  to  Alfred,  and  Scanderbeg,  and  Gus- 
tavus?  Suppose  they  were  virtuous;  did  they 
wear  out  virtue  ? As  great  a stake  depends  on 
your  private  act  to-day,  as  followed  their  public 
and  renowned  steps.  When  private  men  shall  act 
with  vast  views,  the  lustre  will  be  transferred 
from  the  actions  of  kings  J;o  those  of  gentlemen. 

The  world  has  indeed  been  instructed  by  its 
kings,  who  have  so  magnetized  the  eyes  of  na- 
tions. It  has  been  taught  by  this  colossal  sym- 
bol the  mutual  reverence  that  is  due  from  man  to 
man.  The  joyful  loyalty  with  which  men  have 
every  wliere  suffered  the  king,  the  noble,  or  the 
great  proprietor  to  walk  among  them  by  a law  of 
his  own,  make  his  own  scale  of  men  and  things. 


SELF-RELIANCE, 


59 


and  reverse  theirs,  pay  for  benefits  not  with 
money  but  with  honor,  and  represent  the  Law  in 
his  person,  was  the  hieroglyphic  by  which  they 
obscurely  signified  their  consciousness  of  their 
own  right  and  comeliness,  the  right  of  every 
man. 

The  magnetism  which  all  original  action  ex- 
erts is  explained  when  we  inquire  the  reason  of 
self-trust.  Who  is  the  Trustee  ? What  is  the 
aboriginal  Self  on  which  a universal  reliance  may 
be  grounded?  What  is  the  nature  and  power 
of  that  science-baffling  star,  without  parallax, 
without  calculable  elements,  which  shoots  a ray 
of  beauty  even  into  trivial  and  impure  actions,  if 
the  least  mark  of  independence  appear?  The  in- 
quiry leads  us  to  that  source,  at  once  the  essence 
of  genius,  the  essence  of  virtue,  and  the  essence 
of  life,  which  we  call  Spontaneity  or  Instinct. 
We  denote  this  primary  wisdom  as  Intuition, 
whilst  all  later  teachings  are  tuitions.  In  that  deep 
force,  the  last  fact  behind  which  analysis  cannot 
go,  all  things  find  their  common  origin.  For  the 
sense  of  being  which  in  calm  hours  rises,  we 
know  not  how,  in  the  soul,  is  not  diverse  from 
things,  from  space,  from  light,  from  time,  from 
man,  but  one  with  them,  and  proceedeth  ob- 
viously from  the  same  source  whence  their  life 
and  being  also  proceedeth.  We  first  share  the 
life  b}^  which  things  exist,  and  afterwards  see 
them  as  appearances  in  nature,  and  forget  that 
we  have  shared  their  cause.  Here  is  the  fountain 
of  action  and  th^  fountain  of  thought.  Here  are 


6o 


ESSAY  II. 


the  lungs  of  that  inspiration  which  giveth  man 
wisdom,  of  that  inspiration  of  man  which  cannot 
be  denied  without  impiety  and  atheism.  We  lie 
in  the  lap  of  immense  intelligence,  which  makes 
us  organs  of  activity  and  receivers  of  its  truth„ 
When  we  discern  justice,  when  we  discern  truth, 
we  do  nothing  of  ourselves,  but  allow  a passage 
to  its  beams.  If  we  ask  whence  this  comes,  if  we 
seek  to  pry  into  the  soul  that  causes, — all  meta- 
physics, all  philosophy  is  at  fault.  Its  presence 
or  its  absence  is  all  we  can  affirm.  Every  man 
discerns  between  the  voluntary  acts  of  his  mind, 
and  his  involuntary  perceptions.  And  to  his  in- 
voluntary perceptions,  he  knows  a perfect  respect 
is  due.  He  may  err  in  the  expression  of  them, 
but  he  knows  that  these  things  are  so,  like  day 
and  night,  not  to  be  disputed.  All  my  wilful  ac- 
tions and  acquisitions  are  but  roving ; — the  most 
trivial  reverie,  the  faintest  native  emotion  are  do- 
mestic and  divine.  Thoughtless  people  contra- 
dict as  readily  the  statement  of  perceptions  as  of 
opinions,  or  rather  much  more  readily ; for,  they 
do  not  distinguish  between  perception  and  notion. 
They  fancy  that  I choose  to  see  this  or  that 
thing.  But  perception  is  not  whimsical,  but 
fatal.  If  I see  a trait,  my  children  will  see  it 
after  me,  and  in  course  of  time,  all  mankind, — 
although  it  may  chance  that  no  one  has  seen  it 
before  me.  For  my  perception  of  it  is  as  much  a 
fact  as  the  sun. 

The  relations  of  the  soul  to  the  divine  spirit 
are  so  pure  that  it  is  profane  to  seek  to  interpose 


SELF-RELIA  NCE. 


6i 


helps.  It  must  be  that  when  God  speaketh,  he 
should  communicate  not  one  thing,  but  all  things; 
should  fill  the  world  with  his  voice ; should  scat- 
ter forth  light,  nature,  time,  souls,  from  the  centre 
of  the  present  thought ; and  new  date  and  new 
create  the  whole.  Whenever  a mind  is  simple, 
and  receives  a divine  wisdom,  then  old  things 
pass  away, — means,  teachers,  texts,  temples  fall ; 
it  lives  now  and  absorbs  past  and  future  into  the 
present  hour.  All  things  are  made  sacred  by  re- 
lation to  it, — one  thing  as  much  as  another.  All 
things  are  dissolved  to  their  centre  by  their  cause, 
and  in  the  universal  miracle  petty  and  particular 
miracles  disappear.  This  is  and  must  be.  Jf, 
therefore,  a man  claims  to  know  and  speak  of 
God,  and  carries  you  backward  to  the  phraseol- 
ogy of  some  old  mouldered  nation  in  another 
country,  in  another  world,  believe  him  not.  Is 
the  acorn  better  than  the  oak  which  is  its  fulness 
and  completion?  Is  the  parent  better  than  the 
child  into  whom  he  has  cast  his  ripened  being? 
Whence  then  this  worship  of  the  past?  The 
centuries  are  conspirators  against  the  sanity  and 
majesty  of  the  soul.  Time  and  space  are  but 
physiological  colors  which  the  eye  maketh,  but 
the  soul  is  light ; where  it  is,  is  day  ; where  it 
was,  is  night;  and  history  is  an  impertinence  and 
an  injury,  if  it  be  anything  more  than  a cheerful 
apologue  or  parable  of  my  being  and  becoming. 

Man  is  timid  and  apologetic.  He  is  no  longer 
upright.  He  dares  not  say,  I think,”  “ I am,”  but 
quotes  some  saint  or  sage.  He  is  ashamed  before 


62 


ESSAY  //. 


the  blade  of  grass  or  the  blowing  rose.  These 
roses  under  my  window  make  no  reference  to 
former  roses  or  to  better  ones ; they  are  for  what 
they  are ; they  exist  with  God  to-day.  There  is 
no  time  to  them.  There  is  simply  the  rose;  it  is 
perfect  in  every  moment  of  its  existence.  Before 
a leaf-bud  has  burst,  its  whole  life  acts;  in  the 
full-blown  flower,  there  is  no  more  ; in  the  leafless 
root,  there  is  no  less.  Its  nature  is  satisfied,  and 
it  satisfies  nature,  in  all  moments  alike.  There  is 
no  time  to  it.  But  man  postpones  or  remembers; 
he  does  not  live  in  the  present,  but  with  reverted 
eye  laments  the  past,  or,  heedless  of  the  riches 
that  surround  them,  stands  on  tiptoe  to  foresee 
the  future.  He  cannot  be  happy  and  strong  un- 
til he  too  lives  with  nature  in  the  present,  above 
time. 

This  should  be  plain  enough.  Yet  see  what 
strong  intellects  dare  not  yet  hear  God  himself, 
unless  he  speak  the  phraseology  of  I know  not 
what  David,  or  Jeremiah,  or  Paul.  We  shall  not 
always  set  so  great  a price  on  a few  texts,  on  a 
few  lives.  We  are  like  children  who  repeat  by 
rote  the  sentences  of  grandames  and  tutors,  and, 
as  they  grow  older,  of  the  men  of  talents  and 
character  they  chance  to  see, — painfully  recollect- 
ing the  exact  words  they  spoke  ; afterwards,  when 
they  come  into  the  point  of  view  which  those  had 
who  uttered  these  sayings,  they  understand  them, 
and  are  willing  to  let  the  words  go ; for,  at  any 
time,  they  can  use  words  as  good,  when  occasion 
comes.  So  was  it  with  us,  so  will  it  be,  if  we 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


63 


proceed.  If  we  live  truly,  we  shall  see  truly. 
It  is  as  easy  for  the  strong  man  to  be  strong, 
as  it  is  for  the  weak  to  be  weak.  When  we 
have  new  perception,  we  shall  gladly  disbur- 
then  the  memory  of  its  hoarded  treasures  as  old 
rubbish.  When  a man  lives  with  God,  his  voice 
shall  be  as  sweet  as  the  murmur  of  the  brook  and 
the  rustle  of  the  corn. 

And  now  at  last  the  highest  truth  on  this  subject 
remains  unsaid;  probably,  cannot  be  said;  for  all 
that  we  say  is  the  far  off  remembering  of  the  intui- 
tion. That  thought,  by  what  1 can  now  nearest 
approach  to  say  it,  is  this.  When  good  is  near  you, 
when  you  have  life  in  yourself, — it  is  not  by  any 
known  or  appointed  way ; you  shall  not  discern 
the  foot-prints  of  any  other;  you  shall  not  see  the 
face  of  man  ; you  shall  not  hear  any  name  ;— the 
way,  the  thought,  the  good  shall  be  wholly 
strange  and  new.  It  shall  exclude  all  other  be- 
ing. You  take  the  way  from  man  not  to  man. 
All  persons  that  ever  existed  are  its  fugitive  min- 
isters. There  shall  be  no  fear  in  it.  Fear  and 
hope  are  alike  beneath  it.  It  asks  nothing.  There 
is  somewhat  low  even  in  hope.  We  are  then  in 
vision.  There  is  nothing  that  can  be  called  grat- 
itude nor  properly  joy.  The  soul  is  raised  over 
passion.  It  seeth  identity  and  eternal  causation. 
It  is  a perceiving  that  Truth  and  Right  are. 
Hence  it  becomes  a Tranquillity  out  of  the 
knowing  that  all  things  go  well.  Vast  spaces  of 
nature  ; the  Atlantic  Ocean,  the  South  Sea ; vast 
intervals  of  time,  years,  centuries,  are  of  no  ac- 


64 


ESSAY  II. 


count.  This  which  I think  and  feel,  underlay 
that  former  state  of  life  and  circumstances,  as  it 
does  underlie  my  present,  and  will  always  all  cir- 
cumstance, and  what  is  called  life,  and  w^hat  is 
called  death. 

Life  only  avails,  not  the  having  lived.  Powef 
ceases  in  the  instant  of  repose ; it  resides  in  the 
moment  of  transition  from  a past  to  a new  state  ; 
in  the  shooting  of  the  gulf ; in  the  darting  to  an 
aim.  This  one  fact  the  world  hates,  that  the  soul 
hecom.es  ; for,  that  forever  degrades  the  past ; turns 
all  riches  to  poverty  ; all  reputation  to  a shame ; 
confounds  the  saint  with  the  rogue ; shoves  Jesus 
and  Judas  equally  aside.  Why  then  do  we  prate 
of  self-reliance  ? Inasmuch  as  the  soul  is  present, 
there  will  be  power  not  confident  but  agent.  To 
talk  of  reliance,  is  a poor  external  way  of  speak- 
ing. Speak  rather  of  that  which  relies,  because 
it  works  and  is.  Who  has  more  soul  than  I,  mas- 
ters me,  though  he  should  not  raise  his  finger. 
Round  him  I must  revolve  by  the  gravitation  of 
spirits;  who  has  less,  I rule  with  like  facility. 
We  fancy  it  rhetoric  when  we  speak  of  eminent 
virtue.  We  do  not  yet  see  that  virtue  is  Height, 
and  that  a man  or  a company  of  men  plastic  and 
permeable  to  principles,  by  the  law  of  nature  must 
overpower  and  ride  all  cities,  nations,  kings,  rich 
men,  poets,  who  are  not. 

This  is  the  ultimate  fact  which  we  so  quickly 
reach  on  this  as  on  every  topic,  the  resolution  of 
all  into  the  ever  blessed  One.  Virtue  is  the  gov- 
ernor, the  creator,  the  reality.  All  things  real  are 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


65 

50  by  so  much  of  virtue  as  they  contain.  Hard 
ship,  husbandry,  hunting,  whaling,  war,  eloquence, 
personal  weight,  are  somewhat,  and  engage  my 
respect  as  examples  of  the  soul’s  presence  and  im- 
pure action.  1 see  the  same  law  working  in  na- 
ture for  conservation  and  growth.  The  poise  of 
a planet,  the  bended  tree  recovering  itself  from 
the  strong  wind,  the  vital  resources  of  every  veg- 
etable and  animal,  are  also  demonstrations  of  the 
self-sufficing,  and  therefore  self-reljdng  soul.  All 
history  from  its  highest  to  its  trivial  passages  is  the 
various  record  of  this  power. 

Thus  all  concentrates  ; let  us  not  rove  ; let  us 
sit  at  home  with  the  cause.  Let  us  stun  and  as- 
tonish the  intruding  rabble  of  men  and  books  and 
institutions  by  a simple  declaration  of  the  divine 
fact.  Bid  them  take  the  shoes  from  off  their  feet, 
for  God  is  here  within.  Let  our  simplicity  judge 
them,  and  our  docility  to  our  own  law  demon- 
strate the  poverty  of  nature  and  fortune  beside 
our  native  riches. 

But  now  we  are  a mob.  Man  does  not  stand  in 
awe  of  man,  nor  is  the  soul  admonished  to  stay  at 
home,  to  put  itself  in  communication  with  the  in- 
ternal ocean,  but  it  goes  abroad  to  beg  a cup  of 
water  of  the  urns  of  men.  We  must  go  alone. 
Isolation  must  precede  true  society.  I like  the  si- 
lent church  before  the  service  begins,  better  than 
any  preaching.  How  far  off,  how  cool,  how  chaste 
the  persons  look,  begirt  each  one  with  a precinct 
or  sanctuary.  So  let  us  always  sit.  Why  should 
we  assume  the  faults  of  our  friend,  or  wife,  or 

5 


66 


ESSAY  IL 


father,  or  child,  because  they  sit  around  our  hearth, 
Dr  are  said  to  have  the  same  blood  ? All  men 
have  my  blood,  and  I have  all  men’s.  Not  for 
that  will  I adopt  their  petulance  or  folly,  even  to 
the  extent  of  being  ashamed  of  it.  But  your  iso- 
lation must  not  be  mechanical,  but  spiritual,  that 
is,  must  be  elevation.  At  times  the  whole  world 
seems  to  be  in  conspiracy  to  importune  you  with 
emphatic  trifles.  Friend,  client,  child,  sickness, 
fear,  want,  charity,  all  knock  at  once  at  thy  closet 
door  and  say,  Come  out  unto  us.” — Do  not  spill 
thy  soul ; do  not  all  descend ; keep  thy  state  j 
stay  at  home  in  thine  own  heaven ; come  not  for 
a moment  into  their  facts,  into  their  hubbub  of 
conflicting  appearances,  but  let  in  the  light  of  thy 
law  on  their  confusion.  The  power  men  possess 
to  annoy  me,  I give  them' by  a weak  curiosity. 
No  man  can  come  near  me  but  through  my  act. 
“ What  we  love  that  we  have,  but  by  desire  we 
bereave  ourselves  of  the  love.” 

If  we  cannot  at  once  rise  to  the  sanctities  of 
obedience  and  faith,  let  us  at  least  resist  our  tempt- 
ations, let  us  enter  into  the  state  of  war,  and 
wake  Thor  and  Woden,  courage  and  constancy  in 
our  Saxon  breasts.  This  is  to  be  done  in  our 
smooth  times  by  speaking  the  truth.  Check  this 
lying  hospitality  and  lying  affection.  Live  no 
longer  to  t he  expectation  of  these  deceived  and  de- 
ceiving people  with  whom  we  converse.  Say  to 
them,  O father,  O mother,  O wife,  O brother,  O 
friend,  I have  lived  with  you  after  appearances 
hitherto.  Henceforward  I am  the  truth’s.  Be  it 


SELF-RELIANCE, 


67 


known  unto  you  that  henceforward  I obey  no  law 
less  than  the  eternal  law.  I will  have  no  cove- 
nants but  proximities.  I shall  endeavor  to  nour- 
ish my  parents,  to  support  my  family,  to  be  the 
chaste  husband  of  one  wife, — but  these  relations  I 
must  fill  after  a new  and  unprecedented  way.  I 
appeal  from  your  customs.  I must  be  myself.  I 
cannot  break  myself  any  longer  for  you,  or  you. 
If  you  can  love  me  for  what  I am,  we  shall  be  the 
happier.  If  you  cannot,  I will  still  seek  to  de- 
serve that  you  should.  I must  be  myself.  I will 
not  hide  my  tastes  or  aversions.  I will  so  trust 
that  what  is  deep  is  holy,  that  I will  do  strongly 
before  the  sun  and  moon  whatever  inly  rejoices 
me,  and  the  heart  appoints.  If  you  are  noble,  I 
will  love  you  ; if  you  are  not,  I will  not  hurt  you 
and  myself  with  my  hypocritical  attentions.  If  you 
are  true,  but  not  in  the  same  truth  with  me,  cleave 
to  your  companions;  I will  seek  my  own.  Ido 
this  not  selfishly,  but  humbly  and  truly.  It  is 
alike  your  interest  and  mine  and  all  men’s,  how« 
ever  long  we  have  dwelt  in  lies,  to  live  in  truth. 
Does  this  sound  harsh  to-day?  You  will  soon 
love  what  is  dictated  by  your  nature  as  well  as 
mine,  and  if  we  follow  the  truth,  it  will  bring  us 
out  safe  at  last. — But  so  you  may  give  these  friends 
pain.  Yes,  but  I cannot  sell  my  liberty  and  my 
power,  to  save  their  sensibility.  Besides,  all  per- 
sons have  their  moments  of  reason  when  they  look 
out  into  the  region  of  absolute  truth ; then  will 
they  justify  me  and  do  the  same  thing. 

The  populace  think  that  your  rejection  of  popu- 


68 


ESSAV  II. 


lar  standards  is  a rejection  of  all  standard,  and 
mere  antinomianism ; and  the  bold  sensualist  will 
use  the  name  of  philosophy  to  gild  his  crimes.  But 
the  law  of  consciousness  abides.  There  are  two 
confessionals,  in  one  or  the  other  of  which  we 
must  be  shriven.  You  may  fulfil  your  round  of 
duties  by  clearing  yourself  in  the  direct.,  or,  in  the 
reflex  way.  Consider  whether  you  have  satisfied 
your  relations  to  father,  mother,  cousin,  neighbor, 
town,  cat,  and  dog  ;•  whether  any  of  these  can  up- 
braid you.  But  I may  also  neglect  this  reflex 
standard,  and  absolve  me  to  myself.  I have  my 
own  stern  claims  and  perfect  circle.  It  denies  the 
name  of  duty  to  many  offices  that  are  called 
duties.  But  if  I can  discharge  its  debts,  it  enables 
me  to  dispense  with  the  popular  code.  If  any 
one  imagines  that  this  law  is  lax,  let  him  keep  its 
commandment  one  day. 

And  truly  it  demands  something  godlike  in  him 
who  has  cast  off  the  common  motives  of  humanity, 
and  has  ventured  to  trust  himself  for  a task-mas- 
ter. High  be  his  heart,  faithful  his  will,  clear  his 
sight,  that  he  may  in  good  earnest  be  doctrine, 
society,  law  to  himself,  that  a simple  purpose  may 
be  to  him  as  strong  as  iron  necessity  is  to  others. 

If  any  man  consider  the  present  aspects  of  what 
is  called  by  distinction  society.,  he  will  see  the  need 
of  these  ethics.  The  sinew  and  heart  of  man 
seem  to  be  drawn  out,  and  we  are  become  timorous 
desponding  whimperers.  We  are  afraid  of  truth, 
afraid  of  fortune,  afraid  of  death,  and  afraid  of  each 
other.  Our  age  yields  no  great  and  perfect  per- 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


69 


sons.  We  want  men  and  women  who  shall  reno- 
vate life  and  our  social  state,  but  we  see  that  most 
natures  are  insolvent;  cannot  satisfy  their  own 
wants,  have  an  ambition  out  of  all  proportion  to 
their  practical  force,  and  so  do  learn  and  beg  day 
and  night  continually.  Our  housekeeping  is  men- 
dicant, our  arts,  our  occupations,  our  marriages,  our 
religion  we  have  not  chosen,  but  society  has  chosen 
for  us.  We  are  parlor  soldiers.  The  rugged  bat- 
tle of  fate,  where  streui^th  is  born,  we  shun. 

If  our  young  men  miscarry  in  their  first  enter- 
prizes,  they  lose  all  heart.  If  the  young  merchant 
fails,  men  say  he  is  ruined.  If  the  finest  genius 
studies  at  one  of  our  colleges,  and  is  not  installed 
in  an  office  within  one  year  afterwards  in  the  cities 
or  suburbs  of  Boston  or  New  York,  it  seems  to  his 
friends  and  to  himself  that  he  is  right  in  being  dis- 
heartened and  in  complaining  the  rest  of  his  life. 
A sturdy  lad  from  New  Hampshire  or  Vermont, 
who  in  turn  tries  all  the  professions,  who  teams  it^ 
farms  it.,  peddles.,  keeps  a school,  preaches,  edits  a 
newspaper,  goes  to  Congress,  buys  a township,  and 
so  forth,  in  successive  years,  and  always,  like  a 
cat,  falls  on  his  feet,  is  worth  a hundred  of  these 
city  dolls.  He  walks  abreast  with  his  days,  and 
feels  no  shame  in  not  ‘‘  studying  a profession,”  for 
he  does  not  postpone  his  life,  but  lives  already, 
He  has  not  one  chance,  but  a hundred  chances. 
Let  a stoic  arise  who  shall  reveal  the  resources  of 
man,  and  tell  men  they  are  not  leaning  willows, 
but  can  and  must  detach  themselves;  that  with 
the  exercise  of  self-trust,  new  powers  shall  appear; 


70 


ESSAY  H 


that  a man  is  the  word  made  flesh,  born  to  shed 
healing  to  the  nations,  that  he  should  be  ashamed  of 
our  compassion,  and  that  the  moment  he  acts  from 
himself,  tossing  the  laws,  the  books,  idolatries,  and 
customs  out  of  the  window, — we  pity  him  no  more 
but  thank  and  revere  him, — and  that  teacher  shall 
restore  the  life  of  man  to  splendor,  and  make  his 
name  dear  to  all  History. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  a greater  self-reliance, — a 
new  respect  for  the  divinity  in  man, — must  work 
a revolution  in  all  the  offices  and  relations  of  men  ; 
in  their  religion  ; in  their  education  ; in  their  pur- 
suits ; their  inodes  of  living  ; their  association ; in 
their  property ; in  their  speculative  views. 

1.  In  what  prayers  do  men  allow  themselves  ! 
That  which  they  call  a holy  office,  is  not  so  much 
as  brave  and  manly.  Pra}^er  looks  abroad  and 
asks  for  some  foreign  addition  to  come  through 
some  foreign  virtue,  and  loses  itself  in  endless 
mazes  of  natural  and  supernatural,  and  mediato- 
rial and  miraculous.  Prayer  that  craves  a particu- 
lar commodity — anything  less  than  all  good,  is 
vicious.  Prayer  is  the  contemplation  of  the  facts 
of  life  from  the  highest  point  of  view.  It  is  the 
soliloquy  of  a beholding  and  jubilant  soul.  It  is  the 
spirit  of  God  pronouncing  his  works  good.  But 
prayer  as  a means  to  effect  a private  end,  is  theft 
and  meanness.  It  supposes  dualism  and  not  unity 
in  nature  and  consciousness.  As  soon  as  the  man 
is  at  one  with  God,  he  will  not  beg.  He  will  then 
see  prayer  in  all  action.  The  prayer  of  the  farmer 
kneeling  in  his  field  to  weed  it,  the  prayer  of  the 


SELF-RELIANCE, 


71 


rower  kneeling  with  the  stroke  of  his  oar,  are  true 
prayers  heard  throughout  nature,  though  for  cheap 
ends.  Caratach,  in  Fletcher’s  Bonduca,  when 
admonished  to  inquire  the  mind  of  the  god  Au- 
date,  replies, 

His  hiddea  meaning  lies  in  our  endeavors, 

Our  valors  are  our  best  gods.” 

Another  sort  of  false  prayers  are  our  regrets. 
Discontent  is  the  want  of  self-reliance ; it  is  in- 
firmity of  will.  Regret  calamities,  if  you  can 
thereby  help  tlie  sufferer  ; if  not,  attend  your  own 
work,  and  already  the  evil  begins  to  be  repaired. 
Our  sympathy  is  just  as  base.  We  come  to  them 
who  weep  foolishly,  and  sit  down  and  cry  for 
company,  instead  of  imparting  to  them  truth  and 
health  in  rough  electric  shocks,  putting  them  once 
more  in  communication  with  the  soul.  The  secret 
of  fortune  is  joy  in  our  hands.  Welcome  ever- 
more to  gods  and  men  is  the  self-helping  man.  For 
him  all  doors  are  flung  wide.  Him  all  tongues 
greet,  all  honors  crown,  all  eyes  follow  with  de- 
sire. Our  love  goes  out  to  him  and  embraces  him, 
because  he  did  not  need  it.  We  solicitously  and 
apologetically  caress  and  celebrate  him,  because 
he  held  on  his  way  and  scorned  our  disapproba- 
tion. The  gods  love  him  because  men  hated  him. 

To  the  persevering  mortal,”  said  Zoroaster,  “ the 
blessed  Immortals  are  swift.” 

As  men’s  prayers  are  a disease  of  the  will,  so 
are  their  creeds  a disease  of  the  intellect.  They 
say  with  those  foolish  Israelites,  ‘‘  Let  not  Go( 


72 


ESSAV  II, 


speak  to  us,  lest  we  die.  Speak  thou,  speak  any 
man  with  us,  and  we  will  obey.”  Everywhere  I 
am  bereaved  of  meeting  God  in  my  brother,  be- 
cause he  has  shut  his  own  temple  doors,  and  re- 
cites fables  merely  of  his  brother’s,  or  his  brother’s 
brother’s  God.  Every  new  mind  is  a new  classifi- 
cation. If  it  prove  a mind  of  uncommon  activity 
and  power,  a Locke,  a Lavoisier,  a Hutton,  a Ben- 
tham,  a Spurzheim,  it  imposes  its  classification  on 
other  men,  and  lo  ! a new  system.  In  proportion 
always  to  the  depth  of  the  thought,  and  so  to  the 
number  of  the  objects  it  touches  and  brings 
w ithin  reach  of  the  pupil,  is  his  complacenc}^  But 
chiefly  is  this  apparent  in  creeds  and  churches, 
which  are  also  classifications  of  some  powerful 
mind  acting  on  the  great  elemental  thought  of  Duty, 
and  man’s  relation  to  the  Highest.  Such  is  Calvin- 
ism, Qakerism  Swedenborgianism.  The  pupil  takes 
the  same  delight  in  subordinating  everything  to 
the  new  terminology  that  a girl  does  who  has  just 
learned  botany,  in  seeing  a new  earth  and  new 
seasons  thereby.  It  will  happen  for  a time,  that 
the  pupil  will  feel  a real  debt  to  the  teacher, — 
will  find  his  intellectual  power  has  grown  by  the 
study  of  his  writings.  This  will  continue  until  he 
has  exhausted  his  master’s  mind.  But  in  all  un- 
balanced minds,  the  classification  is  idolized, 
passes  for  the  end,  and  not  for  a speedily  exhaust- 
ible means,  so  that  the  walls  of  the  system  blend 
to  their  eye  in  the  remote  horizon  with  the  walls 
of  the  universe  ; the  luminaries  of  heaven  seem  to 
them  hung  on  the  arch  their  master  built.  They 


SELF-RELIANCE, 


73 


cannot  imagine  how  you  aliens  have  any  right  to 
see, — how  you  can  see  ; It  must  be  somehow 
that  you  stole  the  light  from  us.”  They  do  not 
yet  perceive,  that,  light  unsystematic,  indomitable, 
will  break  into  any  cabin,  even  into  theirs.  Let 
them  chirp  awhile  and  call  it  their  own.  If  they 
are  honest  and  do  well,  presently  their  neat  new 
pinfold  will  be  too  strait  and  low,  will  crack,  will 
lean,  will  rot  and  vanish,  and  the  immortal  light, 
all  young  and  joyful,  million-orbed,  million-colored, 
will  beam  over  the  universe  as  on  the  first  morning. 

2.  It  is  for  want  of  self-culture  that  the  idol  of 
Travelling,  the  idol  of  Italy,  of  England,  of  Egypt, 
remains  for  all  educated  Americans.  They  who 
made  England,  Italy,  or  Greece  venerable  in  the 
imagination,  did  so  not  by  rambling  round  crea- 
tion as  a moth  round  a lamp,  but  by  sticking  fast 
where  they  were,  like  an  axis  of  the  earth.  In 
manly  hours,  we  feel  that  duty  is  our  place,  and 
that  the  merry  men  of  circumstance  should  follow 
as  they  may.  The  soul  is  no  traveller : the  wise 
man  stays  at  home  with  the  soul,  and  when  his 
necessities,  his  duties,  on  any  occasion  call  him 
from  his  house,  or  into  foreign  lands,  he  is  at  home 
still,  and  is  not  gadding  abroad  from  himself,  and 
shall  make  men  sensible  by  the  expression  of  his 
countenance,  that  he  goes  the  missionary  of  wis- 
dom and  virtue,  and  visits  cities  and  men  like  a 
sovereign,  and  not  like  an  interloper  or  a valet. 

I have  no  churlish  objection  to  the  circumnavi- 
gation of  the  globe,  for  the  purposes  of  art,  of 
study,  and  benevolence,  so  that  the  man  is  first 


74 


ESSAY  IL 


domesticated,  or  does  not  go  abroad  with  the  hope 
of  finding  somewhat  greater  than  he  knows.  He 
who  travels  to  be  amused,  or  to  get  somewhat 
which  he  does  not  carry,  travels  away  from  him- 
self, and  grows  old  even  in  youth  among  old 
things.  In  Thebes,  in  Palmyra,  his  will  and  mind 
have  become  old  and  dilapidated  as  they.  He 
carries  ruins  to  ruins. 

Travelling  is  a fool’s  paradise.  We  owe  to  our 
first  journeys  the  discovery  that  place  is  nothing. 
At  home  I dream  that  at  Naples,  at  Rome,  I can 
be  intoxicated  with  beauty,  and  lose  my  sadness. 
I pack  my  trunk,  embrace  m)^  friends,  embark  on 
the  sea,  and  at  last  wake  up  in  Naples,  and  there 
beside  me  is  the  stern  Fact,  the  sad  self,  unrelent- 
ing, identical,  that  I fled  from.  I seek  the  Vati- 
can, and  the  palaces.  I affect  to  be  intoxicated 
with  sights  and  suggestions,  but  I am  not  intoxi- 
cated. My  giant  goes  with  me  wherever  I go. 

3.  But  the  rage  of  travelling  is  itself  only  a 
S3uiiptom  of  a deeper  unsoundness  affecting  the 
whole  intellectual  action.  The  intellect  is  vaga- 
bond, and  the  universal  system  of  education  fos- 
ters restlessness.  Our  minds  travel  when  our  bod- 
ies are  forced  to  stay  at  home.  We  imitate ; and 
what  is  imitation  but  the  travelling  of  the  mind  ? 
Our  houses  are  built  with  foreign  taste ; our 
shelves  are  garnished  with  foreign  ornaments;  our 
opinions,  our  tastes,  our  whole  minds  lean,  and 
follow  the  Past  and  the  Distant,  as  the  eyes  of  a 
maid  follow  her  mistress.  The  soul  created  the 
arts  wherever  they  have  flourished.  It  was  in  his 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


75 


own  mind  that  the  artist  sought  his  model.  It 
was  an  application  of  his  own  thought  to  the 
thing  to  be  done  and  the  conditions  to  be  ob- 
served. And  why  need  we  copy  the  Doric  or  the 
Gothic  model  ? Beauty,  convenience,  grandeur 
of  thought,  and  quaint  expression  are  as  near  to 
us  as  to  any,  and  if  the  American  artist  will  study 
with  hope  and  love  the  precise  thing  to  be  done 
by  him,  considering  the  climate,  the  soil,  the 
length  of  the  day,  the  wants  of  the  people,  the 
habit  and  form  of  the  government,  he  will  cre- 
ate a house  in  which  all  these  will  find  them- 
selves fitted,  and  taste  and  sentiment  will  be  sat- 
isfied also. 

Insist  on  yourself;  never  imitate.  Your  own 
gift  you  can  present  every  moment  with  the  cum- 
ulative force  of  a whole  life’s  cultivation  ; but  of 
the  adopted  talent  of  another,  you  have  only  an 
extemporaneous,  half  possession.  That  which 
each  can  do  best,  none  but  his  Maker  can  teach 
him.  No  man  yet  knows  what  it  is,  nor  can, 
till  that  person  has  exhibited  it.  Where  is  the 
master  who  could  have  taught  Shakespeare  ? 
Where  is  the  master  who  could  have  instructed 
Franklin,  or  Washington,  or  Bacon,  or  Newton? 
Every  great  man  is  an  unique.  The  Scipionism 
of  Scipio  is  precisely  that  part  he  could  not  bor- 
row. If  anybody  will  tell  m.e  whom  the  great  man 
imitates  in  the  original  crisis  when  he  performs 
a great  act,  I will  tell  him  who  else  than  him- 
self can  teach  him.  Shakespeare  will  never  be 
made  by  the  study  of  Shakespeare.  Do  that 


76 


ESSAY  IL 


which  is  assigned  thee,  and  thou  canst  not  hope 
too  much  or  dare  too  much.  There  is  at  this 
moment,  there  is  for  me  an  utterance  bare  and 
grand  as  that  of  the  colossal  chisel  of  Phidias, 
or  trowel  of  the  Egyptians,  or  the  pen  of  Moses, 
or  Dante,  but  different  from  all  these.  Not  pos- 
sibly will  the  soul  all  rich,  all  eloquent,  with 
thousand-cloven  tongue,  deign  to  repeat  itself; 
but  if  I can  hear  what  these  patriarchs  say, 
surely  I can  reply  to  them  in  the  same  pitch  of 
voice  : for  the  ear  and  the  tongue  are  two  organs 
of  one  nature.  Dwell  up  there  in  the  simple 
and  noble  regions  of  thy  life,  obey  thy  heart, 
and  thou  shalt  reproduce  the  Foreworld  again. 

4.  As  our  Religion,  our  Education,  our  Art  look 
abroad,  so  does  our  spirit  of  societj^  All  men 
plume  themselves  on  the  improvement  of  society, 
and  no  man  improves. 

Society  never  advances.  It  recedes  as  fast  on  one 
side  as  it  gains  on  the  other.  Its  progress  is  only 
apparent,  like  the  workers  of  a treadmill.  It  under- 
goes continual  changes  : it  is  barbarous,  it  is  civil- 
ized, it  is  Christianized,  it  is  rich,  it  is  scientific  ; but 
this  change  is  not  amelioration.  For  everything 
that  is  given,  something  is  taken.  Society  ac- 
quires new  arts  and  loses  old  instincts.  What  a 
contrast  between  the  well-clad,  reading,  writing, 
thinking  American,  with  a watch,  a pencil,  and  a 
bill  of  exchange  in  his  pocket,  and  the  naked  New 
Zealander,  whose  property  is  a club,  a spear,  a mat, 
and  an  undivided  twentieth  of  a shed  to  sleep  un- 
der. But  compare  the  health  of  the  two  men.  and 


SELF-RE  LI  A NCE, 


77 


you  shall  see  that  his  aboriginal  strength  the  white 
man  has  lost.  If  the  traveller  tell  us  truly,  strike 
the  savage  with  a broad  axe,  and  in  a day  or  two 
the  flesh  shall  unite  and  heal  as  if  you  struck  the 
blow  into  soft  pitch,  and  the  same  blow  shall  send 
the  white  to  his  grave. 

The  civilized  man  has  built  a coach,  but  has  lost 
the  use  of  his  feet.  He  is  supported  on  crutches, 
but  loses  so  much  support  of  muscle.  He  has  got 
a fine  Geneva  watch,  but  he  has  lost  the  skill  to 
tell  the  hour  by  the  sun.  A Greenwich  nautical 
almanac  he  has,  and  so  being  sure  of  the  informa- 
tion when  he  wants  it,  the  man  in  the  street  does 
not  know  a star  in  the  sky.  The  solstice  lie  does 
not  observe ; the  equinox  he  knows  as  little  ; and 
the  whole  bright  calendar  of  the  year  is  without  a 
dial  in  his  mind.  His  note-books  impair  his 
memory  ; his  libraries  overload  his  wit ; the  insur- 
ance office  increases  the  number  of  accidents ; and 
it  may  be  a question  whether  machinery  does  not 
encumber  ; w’hether  w^e  have  not  lost  by  refine- 
ment some  energy,  by  a Christianity  entrenched  in 
establishments  and  forms,  some  vigor  of  wild 
virtue.  For  every  stoic  was  a stoic  ; but  in  Chris- 
tendom where  is  the  Christian  ? 

There  is  no  more  deviation  in  the  moral  stand- 
ard than  the  standard  of  height  or  bulk.  No 
greater  men  are  now  than  ever  were.  A singular 
equality  may  be  observed  between  the  great  men 
of  the  first  and  of  the  last  ages  ; nor  can  all  the 
science,  art,  religion  and  philosophy  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  avail  to  educate  greater  men  than 


ESSAY  II, 


78 

Plutarch’s  heroes,  three  or  four  and  twenty  cen- 
turies ago.  Not  in  time  is  the  race  progressive. 
Phocion,  Socrates,  Anaxagoras,  Diogenes,  are 
great  men,  but  they  leave  no  class.  He  who  is 
really  of  their  class  will  not  be  called  by  their 
name,  but  be  wholly  his  own  man,  and,  in  his 
turn,  the  founder  of  a sect.  The  arts  and  inven- 
tions of  each  period  are  only  its  costume,  and  do 
not  invigorate  men.  The  harm  of  the  improved 
machinery  may  compensate  its  good.  Hudson  and 
Behring  accomplished  so  much  in  their  fishing- 
boats,  as  to  astonish  Parry  and  Franklin,  whose 
equipment  exhausted  the  resources  of  science  and 
art.  Galileo,  with  an  opera-glass,  discovered  a 
more  splendid  series  of  facts  than  any  one  since. 
Columbus  found  the  New  World  in  an  undecked 
boat.  It  is  curious  to  see  the  periodical  disuse  and 
perishing  of  means  and  machinery  which  were  in- 
troduced with  loud  laudation,  a few  years  or  cen- 
turies before.  The  great  genius  returns  to  es- 
sential man.  We  reckoned  the  improvements  of 
the  art  of  war  among  the  triumphs  of  science,”  and 
yet  Napoleon  conquered  Europe  by  the  Bivouac, 
which  consisted  of  falling  back  on  naked  valor, 
and  disencumbering  it  of  all  aids.  The  Emperor 
held  it  impossible  to  make  a perfect  army,”  says 
Las  Casas,  ^‘without  abolishing  our  arms,  maga- 
zines, commissaries,  and  carriages,  until  in  imita- 
tion of  the  Roman  custom,  the  soldier  should  re- 
ceive his  supply  of  corn,  grind  it  in  his  hand-mill, 
and  make  his  bread  himself.” 

Society  is  a wave.  The  wave  moves  onward. 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


79 


but  the  water  of  which  it  is  composed,  does  not. 
The  same  particle  does  not  rise  from  the  valley  to 
the  ridge.  Its  unity  is  only  phenomenal.  The 
persons  who  make  up  a nation  to-day,  next  year 
die,  and  their  experience  with  them.  ^ 

And  so  the  reliance  on  Property,  including  the 
reliance  on  governments  which  protect  it,  is  the 
want  of  self-reliance.  Men  have  looked  away 
from  themselves  and  at  things  so  long,  that  they 
have  come  to  esteem  what  they  call  the  soul’s 
progress,  namely,  the  religious,  learned,  and  civil 
institutions,  as  guards  of  property,  and  they  de- 
precate assaults  on  these,  because  they  feel  them 
to  be  assaults  on  property.  They  measure  their 
esteem  of  each  other,  by  what  each  has,  not  by 
what  each  is.  But  a cultivated  man  becomes 
ashamed  of  his  property,  ashamed  of  what  he  has, 
out  of  new  respect  for  his  being.  Especially  he  hates 
what  he  has,  if  he  see  that  it  is  accidental, — came 
to  him  by  inheritance,  or  gift,  or  crime  ; then  he 
feels  that  it  is  not  having  ; it  does  not  belong  to 
him,  has  no  root  in  him,  and  merely  lies  there,  be- 
cause no  revolution  or  no  robber  takes  it  away. 
But  that  which  a man  is,  does  always  by  neces- 
sity acquire,  and  what  the  man  acquires  is 
permanent  and  living  property,  which  does  not 
wait  the  beck  of  rulers,  or  mobs,  or  revolu- 
tions, or  fire,  or  storm,  or  bankruptcies,  but 
perpetually  renews  itself  wherever  the  man  is  put. 
‘‘Thy  lot  or  portion  of  life,”  said  the  Caliph  Ali, 
“ is  seeking  after  thee  ; therefore  be  at  rest  from 
seeking  after  it.”  Our  dependence  on  these  foreign 


8o 


ESSAY  IL 


goods  leads  us  to  our  slavish  respect  for  numbers. 
The  political  parties  meet  in  numerous  conven- 
tions ; the  greater  the  concourse,  and  with  each 
new  uproar  of  announcement,  The  delegation  from 
Essex!  The  Democrats  from  New  Hampshire! 
The  Whigs  of  Maine  ! the  young  patriot  feels 
himself  stronger  than  before  by  a new  thousand 
of  eyes  and  arms.  In  like  manner  the  reformers 
summon  conventions,  and  vote  and  resolve  in  mul- 
titude. But  not  so,  O friends ! will  the  God  deign 
to  enter  and  inhabit  you,  but  by  a method  precisely 
the  reverse.  It  is  only  as  a man  puts  off  from 
himself  all  external  support,  and  stands  alone,  that 
I see  him  to  be  strong  and  to  prevail.  He  is 
weaker  by  every  recruit  to  his  banner.  Is  not  a 
man  better  than  a town  ? Ask  nothing  of  men, 
and  in  the  endless  mutation,  thou  only  firm  column 
must  presently  appear  the  upholder  of  all  that 
surrounds  thee.  He  who  knows  that  power  is  in 
the  soul,  that  he  is  weak  only  because  he  has  looked 
for  good  out  of  him  and  elsewhere,  and  so  perceiv- 
ing, throws  himself  unhesitatingly  on  his  thought, 
instantly  rights  himself,  stands  in  the  erect  position, 
commands  his  limbs,  works  miracles;  just  as  a 
man  who  stands  on  his  feet  is  stronger  than  a man 
who  stands  on  his  head. 

So  use  all  that  is  called  Fortune.  Most  men 
gamble  with  her,  and  gain  all,  and  lose  all,  as 
her  wheel  rolls.  But  do  thou  leave  as  unlawful 
these  winnings,  and  deal  with  Cause  and  Effect, 
the  chancellors  of  God.  In  the  Will  work  and 
acquire,  and  thou  hast  chained  the  wheel  of 


SELF-RE  LI  A NCE, 


8l 


Chance,  and  shalt  always  drag  her  after  thee.  A 
political  victory,  a rise  of  rents,  the  recoveiy  of 
your  sick,  or  the  return  of  your  absent  friend,  or 
some  other  quite  external  event,  raises  your  spirits, 
and  you  think  good  days  are  preparing  for  you. 
Do  not  believe  it.  It  can  never  be  so.  Nothing 
can  bring  you  peace  but  yourself.  Nothing  can 
bring  you  peace  but  the  triumph  of  principles. 


COMPENSATION 


COMPENSATION. 


Ever  since  I was  a boy,  I have  wished  to  write 
a discourse  on  Compensation ; for,  it  seemed  to 
me  when  very  young,  that,  on  this  subject,  Life 
was  ahead  of  theology,  and  the  people  knew  more 
than  the  preachers  taught.  The  documents  too, 
from  which  the  doctrine  is  to  be  drawn,  charmed 
my  fancy  by  their  endless  variety,  and  lay  always 
before  me,  even  in  sleep ; for  they  are  the  tools  in 
our  hands,  the  bread  in  our  basket,  the  transac- 
tions of  the  street,  the  farm,  and  the  dwelling- 
house,  the  greetings,  the  relations,  the  debts  and 
credits,  the  influence  of  character,  the  nature  and 
endowment  of  all  men.  It  seemed  to  me  also  that 
in  it  might  be  shown  men  a ray  of  divinity,  the 
present  action  of  the  Soul  of  this  world,  clean 
from  all  vestige  of  tradition,  and  so  the  heart  ot 
man  might  be  bathed  by  an  inundation  of  eternal 
love,  conversing  with  that  which  he  knows  was 
always  and  always  must  be,  because  it  really  is 
now.  It  appeared,  moreover,  that  if  this  doctrine 
could  be  stated  in  terms  with  any  resemblance  to 
those  bright  intuitions  in  which  this  truth  is  some* 

(8«) 


86 


ESSAY  III. 


times  revealed  to  us,  it  would  be  a star  in  many 
dark  hours  and  crooked  passages  in  our  journey 
that  would  not  suffer  us  to  lose  our  way. 

I was  lately  confirmed  in  these  desires  by  hear- 
ing a sermon  at  church.  The  preacher,  a man 
esteemed  for  his  orthodoxy,  unfolded  in  the  ordi- 
nary manner  the  doctrine  of  the  Last  Judgment. 
He  assumed  that  judgment  is  not  executed  in  this 
world ; that  the  wicked  are  successful ; that  the 
good  are  miserable  ; and  then  urged  from  reason 
and  from  Scripture  a compensation  to  be  made  to 
both  parties  in  the  next  life.  No  offence  appeared 
to  be  taken  by  the  congregation  at  this  doctrine. 
As  far  as  I could  observe,  when  the  meeting 
broke  up,  they  separated  without  remark  on  the 
sermon. 

Yet  what  was  the  import  of  this  teaching? 
What  did  the  preacher  mean  by  saying  that  the 
good  are  miserable  in  the  present  life  ? Was  it 
that  houses  and  lands,  offices,  wine,  horses,  dress, 
luxur}^  are  had  by  unprincipled  men,  whilst  the 
saints  are  poor  and  despised ; and  that  a compen- 
sation is  to  be  made  to  these  last  hereafter,  by 
giving  them  the  like  gratifications  another  day, — 
bank-stock  and  doubloons,  venison  and  cham- 
pagne ? This  must  be  the  compensation  intended; 
for,  what  else  ? Is  it  that  they  are  to  have  leave 
to  pray  and  praise  ? to  love  and  serve  men  ? Why, 
that  they  can  do  now.  The  legitimate  inference 
the  disciple  would  draw,  was ; ‘‘We  are  to  have 
such  a good  time  as  the  sinners  have  now  ; ” — or,  to 
push  it  to  its  extreme  import, — “ You  sin  now ; we 


COMPENSA  TION, 


87 


shall  sin  by-and-by ; we  would  sin  now,  if  we 
could;  not  being  successful,  we  expect  our  re- 
venge to-morrow.” 

The  fallacy  lay  in  the  immense  concession  that 
the  bad  are  successful ; that  justice  is  not  done 
now.  The  blindness  of  the  preacher  consisted  of 
deferring  to  the  base  estimate  of  the  market  of 
what  constitutes  a manly  success,  instead  of 
confronting  and  convicting  the  world  from  the 
truth ; announcing  the  Presence  of  the  Soul ; the 
omnipotence  of  the  Will : and  so  establishing  the 
standard  of  good  and  ill,  of  success  and  falsehood, 
and  summoning  the  dead  to  its  present  tribunal. 

I find  a similar  base  tone  in  the  popular  relig- 
ious works  of  the  day,  and  the  same  doctrines  as- 
sumed by  the  literary  men  when  occasionally  they 
treat  the  related  topics.  I think  that  our  popular 
theology  has  gained  in  decorum,  and  not  in  prin- 
ciple, over  the  superstitions  it  has  displaced.  But 
men  are  better  than  this  theology.  Their  daily 
life  gives  it  the  lie.  Every  ingenuous  and  aspir- 
ing soul  leaves  the  doctrine  behind  him  in  his  own 
experience  ; and  all  men  feel  sometimes  the  false- 
hood which  they  cannot  demonstrate.  For  men 
are  wiser  than  they  know.  That  which  they  hear 
in  schools  and  pulpits  without  afterthought,  if 
said  in  conversation,  would  probably  be  questioned 
in  silence.  If  a man  dogmatize  in  a mixed  com- 
pany on  Providence  and  the  divine  laws,  he  is  an- 
swered by  a silence  which  conveys  well  enough  to 
an  observer  the  dissatisfaction  of  the  hearer,  but 
his  incapacity  to  make  his  own  statement. 


88 


ESSAY  III, 


I shall  attempt  in  this  and  the  following  chapter 
to  record  some  facts  that  indicate  the  path  of  the 
law  of  Compensation  ; happy  beyond  my  expecta- 
tion, if  I shall  truly  draw  the  smallest  arc  of  this 
circle. 

PoLAEiTY,  or  action  and  reaction,  we  meet  in 
every  part  of  nature;  in  darkness  and  light;  in 
heat  and  cold;  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  waters;  in 
male  and  female  ; in  the  inspiration  and  expiration 
of  plants  and  animals  ; in  the  systole  and  diastole 
of  the  heart ; in  the  undulations  of  fluids,  and  of 
sound  ; in  the  centrifugal  and  centripetal  gravity ; 
in  electricity,  galvanism,  and  chemical  affinity. 
Superinduce  magnetism  at  one  end  of  a needle  ; 
the  opposite  magnetism  takes  place  at  the  other 
end.  If  the  south  attracts,  the  north  repels.  To 
empty  here,  you  must  condense  there.  An  inevi- 
table dualism  bisects  nature,  so  that  each  thing  is 
a half,  and  suggests  another  thing  to  make  it 
whole  ; as  spirit,  matter ; man,  woman  ; subject- 
ive, objective;  in,  out;  upper,  under;  motion, 
rest ; yea,  nay. 

Whilst  the  world  is  thus  dual,  so  is  every  one 
of  its  parts.  The  entire  system  of  things  gets  rep- 
resented in  every  particle.  There  is  somewhat 
that  resembles  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea,  day 
and  night,  man  and  woman,  in  a single  needle  of 
the  pine,  in  a kernel  of  corn,  in  each  individual 
of  every  animal  tribe.  The  reaction  so  grand  in 
the  elements,  is  repeated  within  these  small 
boundaries.  For  example,  in  the  animal  kingdom, 
the  physiologist  has  observed  that  no  creatures  are 


COMP  E NS  A TION 


89 


favorites,  but  a certain  compensation  balances 
every  gift  and  every  defect.  A surplusage  given 
to  one  part  is  paid  out  of  a reduction  from  another 
part  of  the  same  creature.  If  the  head  and  neck 
are  enlarged,  the  trunk  and  extremities  are  cut 
short. 

The  theory  of  the  mechanic  forces  is  another 
example.  What  we  gain  in  power  is  lost  in  time ; 
and  the  converse.  The  periodic  or  compensating 
errors  of  the  planets,  is  another  instance.  The 
influences  of  climate  and  soil  in  political  history 
are  another.  The  cold  climate  invigorates.  The 
barren  soil  does  not  breed  fevers,  crocodiles,  tigers, 
or  scorpions. 

The  same  dualism  underlies  the  nature  and  con- 
dition of  man.  Every  excess  causes  a defect; 
every  defect  an  excess.  Every  sweet  hath  its 
sour  ; every  evil  its  good.  Every  faculty  which  is 
a receiver  of  pleasure,  has  an  equal  penalty  put  on 
its  abuse.  It  is  to  answer  forks  moderation  with 
its  life.  For  every  grain  of  wit  there  is  a grain 
of  folly.  For  everything  you  have  missed,  you 
have  gained  something  else  ; and  for  everything 
you  gain,  you  lose  something.  If  riches  increase, 
they  are  increased  that  use  them.  If  the  gatherer 
gathers  too  much,  nature  takes  out  of  the  man 
what  she  puts  into  his  chest ; swells  the  estate, 
but  kills  the  owner.  Nature  hates  monopolies 
and  exceptions.  The  waves  of  the  sea  do  not 
more  speedily  seek  a level  from  their  loftiest  toss- 
ing, than  the  varieties  of  condition  tend  to  equal- 
ize themselves.  There  is  always  some  levelling 


90 


ESSAY  II  L 


circumstance  that  puts  down  the  overbearing,  the 
strong,  the  rich,  the  fortunate,  substantially  on  the 
same  ground  with  all  others.  Is  a man  too  strong 
and  fierce  for  society,  and  by  temper  and  position 
a bad  citizen, — a morose  ruffian  with  a dash  of  the 
pirate  in  him  ; — nature  sends  him  a troop  of  pretty 
sons  and  daughters  who  are  getting  along  in  the 
dame’s  classes  at  the  village  school,  and  love  and 
fear  for  them  smooths  his  grim  scowl  to  courtesy. 
Thus  she  contrives  to  intenerate  the  granite  and 
felspar,  takes  the  boar  out  and  puts  the  lamb  in, 
and  keeps  her  balance  true. 

The  farmer  imagines  power  and  place  are  fine 
things.  But  the  President  has  paid  dear  for  his 
White  House.  It  has  commonly  cost  him  all 
his  peace  and  the  best  of  his  manly  attributes. 
To  preserve  for  a short  time  so  conspicuous  an 
appearance  before  the  world,  he  is  content  to  eat 
dust  before  the  real  masters  who  stand  erect 
behind  the  throne.  Or,  do  men  desire  the  more 
substantial  and  permanent  grandeur  of  genius? 
Neither  has  this  an  immunity.  He  who  by  force 
of  will  or  of  thought  is  great,  and  overlooks 
thousands,  has  the  responsibility  of  over-looking. 
With  every  influx  of  light,  comes  new  danger. 
Has  he  light  ? he  must  bear  witness  to  the  light, 
and  always  outrun  that  sympathy  which  gives 
him  such  keen  satisfaction,  by  his  fidelity  to 
new  revelations  of  the  incessant  soul.  He  must 
hate  father  and  mother,  wife  and  child.  Has  he 
all  that  the  world  loves  and  admires  and  covets  ? — 
he  must  cast  behind  him  their  admiration,  and 


COMPENSATION.  gi 

afflict  them  by  faithfulness  to  his  truth,  and 
become  a by-word  and  a hissing. 

This  Law  writes  laws  of  the  cities  and  nations. 
It  will  not  be  baulked  of  its  end  in  the  smallest 
iota.  It  is  in  vain  to  build  or  plot  or  combine 
against  it.  Things  refuse  to  be  mismanaged 
long.  Ees  nolunt  diu  male  administrari.  Though 
no  checks  to  a new  evil  appear,  the  checks  exist 
and  will  appear.  If  the  government  is  cruel, 
the  governor’s  life  is  not  safe.  If  you  tax  too 
high,  the  revenue  will  yield  nothing.  If  you 
make  the  criminal  code  sanguinary,  juries  will 
not  convict.  Nothing  arbitrary,  nothing  arti- 
ficial can  endure.  The  true  life  and  satisfactions 
of  man  seem  to  elude  the  utmost  rigors  or  felici- 
ties of  condition,  and  to  establish  themselves 
with  great  indifferency  under  all  varieties  of  cir- 
cumstance. Under  all  governments  the  influence 
of  character  remains  the  same, — in  Turkey  and 
New  England  about  alike.  Under  the  primeval 
despots  of  Egypt,  history  honestly  confesses  that 
man  must  have  been  as  free  as  culture  could  make 
him. 

These  appearances  indicate  the  fact  that  the 
universe  is  represented  in  every  one  of  its  par- 
ticles. Everything  in  nature  contains  all  the 
powers  of  nature.  Everything  is  made  of  one 
hidden  stuff;  as  the  naturalist  sees  one  type 
under  every  metamorphosis,  and  regards  a horse 
as  a running  man,  a fish  as  a swimming  man,  a 
bird  as  a flying  man,  a tree  as  a rooted  man. 
Each  new  form  repeats  not  only  the  main  char- 


92 


ESSAV  III, 


acter  of  the  type,  but  part  for  part  all  the  details, 
all  the  aims,  furtherances,  hindrances,  energies, 
and  whole  system  of  every  other.  Every  occu-^ 
pation,  trade,  art,  transaction,  is  a compend  of  the 
world,  and  correlative  of  every  other.  Each  one 
is  an  entire  emblem  of  human  life;  of  its  good 
and  ill,  its  trials,  its  enemies,  its  course  and  its 
end.  And  each  one  must  somehow  accommodate 
the  whole  man,  and  recite  all  his  destiny. 

The  world  globes  itself  in  a drop  of  dew. 
The  microscope  cannot  find  the  animalcule  which 
is  less  perfect  for  being  little.  Eyes,  ears,  taste, 
smell,  motion,  resistance,  appetite,  and  organs  of 
reproduction  that  take  hold  on  eternity, — all  find 
room  to  consist  in  the  small  creature.  So  do  we 
put  our  life  into  every  act.  The  true  doctrine  of 
omnipresence  is,  that  God  reappears  with  all  his 
parts  in  every  moss  and  cobweb.  The  value  of 
the  universe  contrives  to  throw  itself  into  every 
point.  If  the  good  is  there,  so  is  the  evil;  if  the 
affinity,  so  the  repulsion  ; if  the  force,  so  the  lim- 
itation. 

Thus  is  the  universe  alive.  All  things  are 
moral.  That  soul  which  within  us  is  a senti- 
ment, outside  of  us  is  a law.  We  feel  its  inspi- 
rations ; out  there  in  history  we  can  see  its  fatal 
strength.  It  is  almighty.  All  nature  feels  its 
grasp.  It  is  in  the  world  and  the  world  was 
made  by  it.”  It  is  eternal,  but  it  enacts  itself  in 
time  and  space.  Justice  is  not  postponed.  A 
perfect  equity  adjusts  its  balance  in  all  parts  of 
life.  0(  d^i  euKCTzrdat,  The  dice  of  God 


COMPENSA  TION. 


93 


are  always  loaded.  The  world  looks  like  a multi- 
plication-table  or  a mathematical  equation,  which, 
turn  it  how  you  will,  balances  itself.  Take  what 
figure  you  will,  its  exact  value,  nor  more  nor  less, 
still  returns  to  you.  Every  secret  is  told,  every 
crime  is  punished,  every  virtue  rewarded,  every 
wrong  redressed,  in  silence  and  certainty.  What 
we  call  retribution,  is  the  universal  necessity  by 
which  the  whole  appears  wherever  a part  appears. 
If  you  see  smoke,  there  must  be  hre.  If  you 
see  a hand  or  a limb,  you  know  that  the  trunk  to 
which  it  belongs,  is  there  behind. 

Every  act  rewards  itself,  or,  in  other  words, 
integrates  itself,  in  a twofold  manner ; first,  in 
the  thing,  or,  in  real  nature;  and  secondly,  in 
the  circumstance,  or,  in  apparent  nature.  Men 
call  the  circumstance  the  retribution.  The 
causal  retribution  is  in  the  thing,  and  is  seen 
by  the  soul.  The  retribution  in  the  circumstance, 
is  seen  by  the  understanding ; it  is  inseparable  from 
the  thing,  but  is  often  spread  over  a long  time, 
and  so  does  not  become  distinct  until  after  many 
years.  The  specific  stripes  may  follow  late  after 
the  offence,  but  they  follow  because  they  accom- 
pany it.  Crime  and  punishment  grow  out  of  one 
stem.  Punishment  is  a fruit  that  unsuspected 
ripens  within  the  flower  of  the  pleasure  which 
concealed  it.  Cause  and  effect,  means  and  ends, 
seed  and  fruit,  cannot  be  severed ; for  the  effect 
already  blooms  in  the  cause,  the  end  pre-exists  in 
the  means,  the  fruit  in  the  seed. 

Whilst  thus  the  world  will  be  whole,  and 


94 


ESSAY  II  J. 


refuses  to  be  disparted,  we  seek  to  act  partially ; 
to  sunder ; to  appropriate ; for  example, — to 
gratify  the  senses,  we  sever  the  pleasure  of  the 
senses  from  the  needs  of  the  character.  The 
ingenuity  of  man  has  been  dedicated  always  to 
the  solution  of  one  problem, — how  to  detach 
the  sensual  sweet,  the  sensual  strong,  the  sensual 
bright,  etc.,  from  the  moral  sweet,  the  moral  deep, 
the  moral  fair ; that  is,  again,  to  contrive  to  cut 
clean  off  this  upper  surface  so  thin  as  to  leave  it 
bottomless ; to  get  a one  end^  without  an  other 
end.  The  soul  says,  Eat ; the  body  would  feast. 
The  soul  says.  The  man  and  woman  shall 
be  one  flesh  and  one  soul ; the  body  would 
join  the  flesh  only.  The  soul  says.  Have  do- 
minion over  all  things  to  the  ends  of  virtue  ; the 
body  would  have  the  power  over  things  to  its  own 
ends. 

The  soul  strives  amain  to  live  and  work  through 
all  things.  It  would  be  the  only  fact.  All  things 
shall  be  added  unto  it, — power,  pleasure,  knowl- 
edge, beauty.  The  particular  man  aims  to  be 
somebody;  to  set  up  for  himself;  to  truck  and 
higgle  for  a private  good ; and,  in  particulars,  to 
ride,  that  he  may  ride  ; to  dress,  that  he  may  be 
dressed;  to  eat,  that  he  may  eat;  and  to  govern 
that  he  may  be  seen.  Men  seek  to  be  great ; they 
would  have  offices,  wealth,  power  and  fame.  They 
think  that  to  be  great  is  to  get  only  one  side  of 
nature — the  sweet,  without  the  other  side — the 
bitter. 

Steadily  is  this  dividing  and  detaching  counter- 


COM  PENS  A TION 


95 


acted.  Up  to  this  day,  it  must  be  owned,  no  pro- 
jector has  had  the  smallest  success.  The  parted 
w’ater  re-unites  behind  our  hand.  Pleasure  is 
taken  out  of  pleasant  things,  profit  out  of  profit- 
able things,  power  out  of  strong  things,  the  mo- 
ment we  seek  to  separate  them  from  the  whole. 
We  can  no  more  halve  things  and  get  the  sensual 
good,  by  itself,  than  we  can  get  an  inside  that 
shall  have  no  outside,  or  a light  without  a shadow. 
“Drive  out  nature  with  a fork,  she  comes  running 
back.’' 

Life  invests  itself  with  inevitable  conditions, 
which  the  unwise  seek  to  dodge,  which  one  and 
another  brags  that  he  does  not  know ; brags  that 
they  do  not  touch  him  but  the  brag  is  on  his 
lips,  the  conditions  are  in  his  soul.  If  he  escapes 
them  in  one  part,  they  attack  him  in  another  more 
vital  part.  If  he  has  escaped  them  in  form,  and 
in  the  appearance,  it  is  that  he  has  resisted  his  life, 
and  fled  from  himself,  and  the  retribution  is  so 
much  death.  So  signal  is  the  failure  of  all  at- 
tempts to  make  this  separation  of  the  good  from 
the  tax,  that  the  experiment  would  not  be  tried, — 
since  to  try  it  is  to  be  mad, — but  for  the  circum- 
stance, that  when  the  disease  began  in  the  will,  of 
rebellion  and  separation,  the  intellect  is  at  once 
infected,  so  that  the  man  ceases  to  see  God  whole 
in  each  object,  but  is  able  to  see  the  sensual  allure- 
ment of  an  object,  and  not  see  the  sensual  hurt ; 
he  sees  the  mermaid’s  head,  but  not  the  dragon’s 
tail;  and  thinks  he  can  cut  off  that  which  he 
would  have,  from  that  which  he  would  not  have. 


96 


ESSAV  II  L 


How  secret  art  thou  who  dwellest  in  tne  Jngnest 
heavens  in  silence,  O thou  only  great  God,  sprink- 
ling with  an  unwearied  Providence  certain  penal 
blindnesses  upon  such  as  have  unbridled  de- 
sires ! ” * 

The  human  soul  is  true  to  these  facts  in  the 
painting  of  fable,  of  history,  of  law,  of  proverbs, 
of  conversation.  It  finds  a tongue  in  literature 
unawares.  Thus  the  Greeks  called  Jupiter,  Su-. 
preme  Mind ; but  having  traditionally  ascribed  to 
him  many  base  actions,  they  involuntarily  made 
amends  to  Reason,  by  tying  up  the  hands  of  so 
bad  a god.  He  is  made  as  helpless  as  a king  of; 
England.  Prometheus  knows  one  secret,  which 
Jove  must  bargain  for ; Minerva,  another.  He 
cannot  get  his  own  thunders ; Minerva  keeps  the 
key  of  them. 

“ Of  all  the  gods  I only  know  the  keys 
That  ope  the  solid  doors  within  whose  vaults 
His  thunders  sleep.” 

A plain  confession  of  the  in- working  of  the  All, 
and  of  its  moral  aim.  The  Indian  mythology 
ends  in  the  same  ethics ; and  indeed  it  would 
seem  impossible  for  any  fable  to  be  invented  and 
get  any  currency  which  was  not  moral.  Aurora 
forgot  to  ask  youth  for  her  lover,  and  so  though 
Tithonus  is  immortal,  he  is  old.  Achilles  is  not 
quite  invulnerable  ; for  Thetis  held  him  by  the  I 
heel  when  she  dipped  him  in  the  Styx,  and  the 
sacred  waters  did  not  wash  that  part.  Siegfried, 

* St.  Augustine:  Confessions,  B.  I. 


COMP  ENS  A TION. 


97 


in  me  Nibeiungen,  is  not  quite  imrnorrai,  for  a leaf 
fell  on  his  back  whilst  he  was  bathing  in  the 
Dragon’s  blood,  and  that  spot  which  it  covered  is 
mortal.  And  so  it  always  is.  There  is  a crack  in 
everything  God  has  made.  Always,  it  would 
;eem,  there  is  this  vindictive  circumstance  stealing 
11  at  unawares,  even  into  the  wild  poesy  in  which 
ihe  human  fancy  attempted  to  make  bold  holiday, 
ind  to  shake  itself  free  of  the  old  law's, — this 
3ack-stroke,  this  kick  of  the  gun,  certifying  that 
the  law  is  fatal  ; that  in  Nature,  nothing  can  be 
gfiven ; all  things  are  sold. 

This  is  that  ancient  doctrine  of  Nemesis,  w^ho 
f keeps  watch  in  the  Universe,  and  lets  no  offence 
[ go  unchastised.  The  Furies,  they  said,  are  at- 
E tendants  on  Justice,  and  if  the  sun  in  heaven 
’should  transgress  his  path,  they  would  punish  him. 
yrhe  poets  related  that  stone  walls,  and  iron  swords, 
and  leathern  thongs  had  an  occult  sympathy  with 
the  wrongs  of  their  owners ; that  the  belt  which 
Ajax  gave  Hector,  dragged  the  Trojan  hero  over 
the  field  at  the  wheels  of  the  car  of  Achilles  ; and 
the  sword  which  Hector  gave  Ajax,  was  that  on 
whose  point  Ajax  fell.  They  recorded  that  when 
the  Thasians  erected  a statue  to  Theogenes,  a vic- 
tor in  the  games,  one  of  his  rivals  went  to  it  by 
night,  and  endeavored  to  throw  it  down  by  re- 
j peated  blows,  until  at  last  he  moved  it  from  its 
pedestal  and  was  crushed  to  death  beneath  its 
fall. 

This  voice  of  fable  has  in  it  somewhat  divine. 
It  came  from  thought  above  the  will  of  the  writer. 

7 


98 


ESS  Ay  HI. 


That  is  the  best  part  ot  each  writer,  which  has 
nothing  private  in  it.  That  is  the  best  part  of 
each,  which  he  does  not  know,  that  which  flowed 
out  of  his  constitution,  and  not  from  his  too  active 
invention ; that  which  in  the  study  of  a single 
artist  you  might  not  easily  find,  but  in  the  study 
of  many,  you  would  abstract  as  the  spirit  of  them 
all.  Phidias  it  is  not,  but  the  work  of  man  in 
that  early  Hellenic  world,  that  I would  know. 
The  name  and  circumstance  of  Phidias,  however 
convenient  for  history,  embarrasses  when  we  come 
to  the  highest  criticism.  We  are  to  see  that  which 
man  was  tending  to  do  in  a given  period,  and  was 
hindered,  or,  if  you  will,  modified  in  doing,  by  the 
interfering  volitions  of  Phidias,  of  Dante,  of 
Shakespeare,  the  organ  whereby  man  at  the  mo- 
ment wrought. 

Still  more  striking  is  the  expression  of  this  fact 
in  the  proverbs  of  all  nations,  which  are  always 
the  literature  of  Reason,  or  the  statements  of  an 
absolute  truth,  without  qualification.  Proverbs, 
like  the  sacred  books  of  each  nation,  are  the  sanc- 
tuary of  the  Intuitions.  That  which  the  droning 
world,  chained  to  appearances,  will  not  allow  the 
realist  to  say  in  his  own  words,  it  will  suffer  him 
to  say  in  proverbs  without  contradiction.  And 
this  law  of  laws  which  the  pulpit,  the  senate  and 
the  college  deny,  is  hourly  preached  in  all  markets 
and  all  languages  by  flights  of  proverbs,  whose 
teaching  is  as  true  and  as  omnipresent  as  that  of 
birds  and  flies. 

All  things  are  double,  one  against  another. — 


COMPENSA  TION, 


99 


Tit  for  tat ; an  eye  for  an  eye ; a tooth  for  a 
tooth;  blood  for  blood;  measure  for  measure; 
love  for  love. — Give  and  it  shall  be  given  you. — 
He  that  watereth  shall  be  watered  himself — What 
will  you  have  ? quoth  God ; pay  for  it  and  take 
it. — Nothing  venture,  nothing  have. — Thou  shalt 
be  paid  exactly  for  what  thou  hast  done,  no  more, 
no  less. — Who  doth  not  work  shall  not  eat. — 
Harm  watch,  harm  catch. — Curses  always  recoil 
on  the  head  of  him  who  imprecates  them. — If  you 
put  a chain  around  the  neck  of  a slave,  the  other 
end  fastens  itself  around  your  own. — Bad  counsel 
confounds  the  adviser. — The  devil  is  an  ass. 

It  is  thus  written,  because  it  is  thus  in  life. 
Our  action  is  overmastered  and  characterized 
above  our  will  by  the  law  of  nature.  We  aim  at 
a petty  end  quite  aside  from  the  public  good,  but 
our  act  arranges  itself  by  irresistible  magnetism 
in  a line  with  the  poles  of  the  world. 

A man  cannot  speak  but  he  judges  himself. 
With  his  will,  or  against  his  will,  he  draws  his 
portrait  to  the  eye  of  his  companions  by  every 
word.  Every  opinion  reacts  on  him  who  utters 
it.  It  is  a threadball  thrown  at  a mark,  but  the 
other  end  remains  in  the  thrower’s  bag.  Or, 
rather,  it  is  a harpoon  thrown  at  the  whale,  un- 
winding, as  it  flies,  a coil  of  cord  in  the  boat,  and 
if  the  harpoon  is  not  good,  or  not  well  thrown,  it 
will  go  nigh  to  cut  the  steersman  in  twain,  or  to 
sink  the  boat. 

You  cannot  do  wrong  without  suffering  wrong. 
‘‘No  man  had  ever  a point  of  pride  that  was  not 


lOO 


ESSAY  III. 


injurious  to  him,”  said  Burke.  The  exclusive  in 
fashionable  life  does  not  see  that  he  excludes  him- 
self from  enjo3unent,  in  the  attempt  to  appropriate 
it.  The  exclusionist  in  religion  does  not  see  that 
he  shuts  the  door  of  heaven  on  himself,  in  striving 
to  shut  out  others.  Treat  men  as  pawns  and 
ninepins,  and  you  shall  suffer  as  well  as  the3\ 
you  leave  out  their  heart,  you  shall  lose  your  own. 
The  senses  would  make  things  of  all  persons  ; of 
women,  of  children,  of  the  poor.  The  vulgar 
proverb,  ‘‘  I will  get  it  from  his  purse  or  get  it 
from  his  skin,”  is  sound  philosophy. 

All  infractions  of  love  and  equity  in  our  social 
relations  are  speedily  punished.  They  are  pun- 
ished by  Fear.  Whilst  I stand  in  simple  relations 
to  my  fellow-man,  I have  no  displeasure  in  meet- 
ing him.  We  meet  as  water  meets  water,  or  a 
current  of  air  meets  another,  with  perfect  diffu- 
sion and  interpenetration  of  nature.  But  as  soon 
as  there  is  any  departure  from  simplicity,  and  at- 
tempt at  halfness,  or  good  for  me  that  is  not  good 
for  him,  my  neighbor  feels  the  wrong ; he  shrinks 
from  me  as  far  as  I have  shrunk  from  him  ; his 
eyes  no  longer  seek  mine ; there  is  war  between 
us ; there  is  hate  in  him  and  fear  in  me. 

All  the  old  abuses  in  society,  the  great  and  uni- 
versal and  the  petty  and  particular,  all  unjust 
accumulations  of  property  and  power,  are  avenged 
in  the  same  manner.  Fear  is  an  instructor  of 
great  sagacity,  and  the  herald  of  all  revolutions. 
One  thing  he  always  teaches,  that  there  is  rotten- 
ness where  he  appears.  He  is  a carrion  crow,  and 


COM  FENS  A TION 


lOI 


thougii  you  see  not  well  what  he  hovers  for,  there 
is  death  somewhere.  Our  property  is  timid,  our 
laws  are  timid,  our  cultivated  classes  are  timid. 
Fear  for  ages  has  boded  and  mowed  and  gibbered 
over  government  and  property.  That  obscene 
bird  is  not  there  for  nothing.  He  indicates  great 
wrongs  which  must  be  revised. 

Of  the  like  nature  is  that  expectation  of  change 
which  instantly  follows  the  suspension  of  our  vol- 
untary activity.  The  terror  of  cloudless  noon,  the 
emerald  of  Polycrates,  the  awe  of  prosperity,  the 
instinct  which  leads  every  generous  soul  to  im- 
pose on  itself  tasks  of  a noble  asceticism  and  vica- 
rious virtue,  are  the  tremblings  of  the  balance  of 
justice  through  the  heart  and  mind  of  man. 

Experienced  men  of  the  world  know  very  well 
that  it  is  always  best  to  pay  scot  and  lot  as  they 
go  along,  and  that  a man  often  pays  dear  for  a 
small  frugality.  The  borrower  runs  in  his  own 
debt.  Has  a man  gained  anything  who  has  re- 
ceived a hundred  favors  and  rendered  none?  Has 
he  gained  by  borrowing,  through  indolence  or 
cunning,  his  neighbor’s  wares,  or  horses,  or  money? 
There  arises  on  the  deed  the  instant  acknowledg- 
ment of  benefit  on  the  one  part,  and  of  debt  on 
the  other  ; that  is,  of  superiority  and  inferiority. 
The  transaction  remains  in  the  memory  of  himself 
and  his  neighbor ; and  every  new  transaction 
alters,  according  to  its  nature,  their  relation  to 
each  other.  He  may  soon  come  to  see  that  he 
had  better  have  broken  his  own  bones  than  to 
have  ridden  in  his  neighbor’s  coach,  and  that  the 


102 


ESSAY  I/I. 


highest  price  he  can  pay  for  a thing  is  to  ask  for 
it.” 

A wise  man  will  extend  this  lesson  to  all  parts 
of  life,  and  know  that  it  is  always  the  part  of  pru- 
dence to  face  every  claimant,  and  pay  every  just 
demand  on  your  time,  your  talents,  or  your  heart. 
Alwaj^s  pay ; for,  first  or  last,  you  must  pay  your 
entire  debt.  Persons  and  events  may  stand  for  a 
time  between  you  and  justice,  but  it  is  only  a 
postponement.  You  must  pay  at  last  your  own 
debt.  If  you  are  wise,  you  will  dread  a prosper- 
ity which  only  loads  you  with  more.  Benefit  is 
the  end  of  nature.  But  for  every  benefit  which 
you  receive,  a tax  is  levied.  He  is  great  who  con- 
fers the  most  benefits.  He  is  base, — and  that  is 
the  one  base  thing  in  the  universe, — to  receive 
favors  and  render  none.  In  the  order  of  nature 
we  cannot  render  benefits  to  those  from  whom  we 
receive  them,  or  only  seldom.  But  the  benefit  we 
receive  must  be  rendered  again,  line  for  line,  deed 
for  deed,  cent  for  cent,  to  somebody.  Beware  of 
too  much  good  staying  in  your  hand.  It  will  fast 
corrupt  and  worm  worms.  Pay  it  away  quickly 
in  some  sort. 

Labor  is  watched  over  by  the  same  pitiless  laws. 
Cheapest,  say  the  prudent,  is  the  dearest  labor. 
What  we  buy  in  a broom,  a mat,  a wagon,  a knife, 
is  some  application  of  good  sense  to  a common 
want.  It  is  best  to  pay  in  your  land  a skilful  gar- 
dener, or  to  buy  good  sense  applied  to  gardening ; 
in  your  sailor,  good  sense  applied  to  navigation ; 
in  the  house,  good  sense  applied  to  cooking,  sew- 


COM  PE  NS  A TION 


103 


ing,  serving ; in  your  agent,  good  sense  applied  to 
accounts  and  affairs.  So  do  you  multiply  your 
presence,  or  spread  yourself  throughout  your  es- 
tate. But  because  of  the  dual  constitution  of  all 
things,  in  labor  as  in  life  there  can  be  no  cheating. 
The  thief  steals  from  himself.  The  swindler  swin- 
dles himself.  For  the  real  price  of  labor  is  knowl- 
edge and  virtue,  whereof  wealth  and  credit  are 
signs.  These  signs,  like  paper-money,  may  be 
counterfeited  or  stolen,  but  that  which  they  rep- 
resent, namely,  knowledge  and  virtue,  cannot  be 
counterfeited  or  stolen.  These  ends  of  labor  can- 
not be  answered  but  by  real  exertions  of  the  mind, 
and  in  obedience  to  pure  motives.  The  cheat,  the 
defaulter,  the  gambler  cannot  extort  the  benefit, 
cannot  extort  the  knowledge  of  material  and 
moral  nature  which  his  honest  care  and  pains 
yield  to  the  operative.  The  law  of  nature  is.  Do 
the  thing,  and  you  shall  have  the  power  ; but  they 
who  do  not  the  thing  have  not  the  power. 

Human  labor,  thrmigh  all  its  forms,  from  the 
sharpening  of  a stake  to  the  construction  of  a city 
or  an  epic,  is  one  immense  illustration  of  the  per- 
fect compensation  of  the  universe.  Everywhere 
and  always  this  law  is  sublime.  The  absolute 
balance  of  Give  and  Take,  the  doctrine  that  every- 
thing has  its  price ; and  if  that  price  is  not  paid, 
not  that  thing  but  something  else  is  obtained,  and 
that  it  is  impossible  to  get  anything  without  its 
price, — this  doctrine  is  not  less  sublime  in  the 
columns  of  a ledger  than  in  the  budgets  of  states, 
in  the  laws  of  lisfht  and  darkness,  in  all  the  action 


104 


ESSAY  IIL 


and  reaction  of  nature.  I cannot  doubt  that  the 
high  laws  which  each  man  sees  ever  implicated  in 
those  processes  with  which  he  is  conversant,  the 
stern  ethics  which  sparkle  on  his  chisel-edge, 
which  are  measured  out  by  his  plumb  and  foot- 
i Lile,  which  stand  as  manifest  in  the  footing  of  the 
shop-bill  as  in  the  history  of  a state, — do  recom- 
mend to  him  his  trade,  and  though  seldom  named, 
exalt  his  business  to  his  imagination. 

The  league  between  virtue  and  nature  engages 
all  things  to  assume  a hostile  front  to  vice.  The 
beautiful  laws  and  substances  of  the  world  perse- 
cute and  whip  the  traitor.  He  finds  that  things 
are  arranged  for  truth  and  benefit,  but  there  is  no 
den  in  the  wide  world  to  hide  a rogue.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  concealment.  Commit  a crime, 
and  the  earth  is  made  of  glass.  Commit  a crime, 
and  it  seems  as  if  a coat  of  snow  fell  on  the 
ground,  such  as  reveals  in  the  woods  the  track  of 
every  partridge  and  fox  and  squirrel  and  mole. 
You  cannot  recall  the  spoken  word,  you  cannot 
wipe  out  the  foot-track,  you  cannot  draw  up  the 
ladder,  so  as  to  leave  no  inlet  or  clew.  Alwa3*s 
some  damning  circumstance  transpires.  The  laws 
and  substances  of  nature,  water,  snow,  wind, 
gravitation,  become  penalties  to  the  thief. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  law  holds  with  equal 
sureness  for  all  right  action.  Love,  and  you  shall 
be  loved.  All  love  is  mathematically  just,  as 
much  as  the  two  sides  of  an  algebraic  equation. 
The  good  man  has  absolute  good,  which  like  fire 
turns  everything  to  its  own  nature,  so  that  you 


COMPENSA  TION, 


lOS 

cannot  do  him  any  harm ; but  as  the  royal  armies 
sent  against  Napoleon,  when  he  approached,  cast 
down  their  colors  and  from  enemies  became 
friends,  so  do  disasters  of  all  kinds,  as  sickness, 
offence,  poverty,  prove  benefactors. 

“ Winds  blow  and  waters  roll 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  power  and  deity, 

Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing.” 

The  good  are  befriended  even  by  weakness  and 
defect.  As  no  man  had  ever  a point  of  pride  that 
was  not  injurious  to  him,  so  no  man  had  ever  a 
defect  that  was  not  somewhere  made  useful  to 
him.  The  stag  in  the  fable  admired  his  horns 
and  blamed  his  feet,  but  when  the  hunter  came, 
his  feet  saved  him,  and  afterwards,  caught  in  the 
thicket,  his  horns  destroyed  him.  Every  man  in 
his  lifetime  needs  to  thank  his  faults.  As  no  man 
thoroughly  understands  a truth  until  first  he  has 
contended  against  it,  so  no  man  has  a thorough 
acquaintance  with  the  hindrances  or  talents  of 
men,  until  he  has  suffered  from  the  one,  and  seen 
the  triumph  of  the  other  over  his  own  want  of 
the  same.  Has  he  a defect  of  temper  that  unfits 
him  to  live  in  society  ? Thereby  he  is  driven  to 
entertain  himself  alone,  and  acquire  habits  of 
self-help ; and  thus,  like  the  wounded  oyster,  he 
mends  his  shell  with  pearl. 

Our  strength  grows  out  of  our  weakness.  Not 
until  we  are  pricked  and  stung  and  sorely  shot  at, 
awakens  the  indignation  which  arms  itself  with 
secret  forces.  A great  man  is  always  willing  t<^ 


io6 


ESSAV  II L 


be  little.  Whilst  he  sits  on  the  cushion  of  ad- 
vantages, he  goes  to  sleep.  When  he  is  pushed, 
tormented,  defeated,  he  has  a chance  to  learn 
something ; he  has  been  put  on  his  wits,  on  his 
manhood  ; he  has  gained  facts  ; learns  his  igno- 
rance ; is  cured  of  the  insanity  of  conceit ; has 
got  moderation  and  real  skill.  The  wise  man  al- 
ways throws  himself  on  the  side  of  his  assailants. 
It  is  more  his  interest  than  it  is  theirs  to  find  his 
weak  point.  The  wound  cicatrizes  and  falls  off 
from  him,  like  a dead  skin,  and  when  they  would 
triumph,  lo ! he  has  passed  on  invulnerable. 
Blame  is  safer  than  praise.  I hate  to  be  defended 
in  a newspaper.  As  long  as  all  that  is  said,  is 
said  against  me,  I feel  a certain  assurance  of  suc- 
cess. But  as  soon  as  honied  words  of  praise  are 
spoken  for  me,  I feel  as  one  that  lies  unprotected 
before  his  enemies.  In  general,  every  evil  to 
which  we  do  not  succumb,  is  a benefactor.  As 
the  Sandwich  Islander  believes  that  the  strength 
and  valor  of  the  enemy  he  kills,  passes  into  him- 
self, so  we  gain  the  strength  of  the  temptation  we 
resist. 

The  same  guards  which  protect  us  from  dis- 
aster, defect,  and  enmity,  defend  us,  if  we  will, 
from  selfishness  and  fraud.  Bolts  and  bars  are 
not  the  best  of  our  institutions,  nor  is  shrewdness 
in  trade  a mark  of  wisdom.  Men  suffer  all  their 
life  long,  under  the  foolish  superstition  that  they 
can  be  cheated.  But  it  is  as  impossible  for  a man 
to  be  cheated  by  any  one  but  himself,  as  for  a 
thing  to  be,  and  not  to  be,  at  the  same  time. 


COMPENSA  TION. 


107 

There  is  a third  silent  party  to  all  our  bargains. 
The  nature  and  soul  of  things  takes  on  itself  the 
guaranty  of  the  fulfilment  of  every  contract,  so 
that  honest  service  cannot  come  to  loss.  If  you 
serve  an  ungrateful  master,  serve  him  the  more. 
Put  God  in  your  debt.  Every  stroke  shall  be 
repaid.  The  longer  the  payment  is  withholden, 
the  better  for  you  ; for  compound  interest  on 
compound  interest  is  the  rate  and  usage  of  this 
excliequer. 

The  history  of  persecution  is  a history  of  en- 
deavors to  cheat  nature,  to  make  water  run  up 
hill,  to  twist  a rope  of  sand.  It  makes  no  differ- 
ence whether  the  actors  be  many  or  one,  a tyrant 
or  a mob.  A mob  is  a society  of  bodies  voluntarily 
bereaving  themselves  of  reason  and  traversing  its 
work.  The  mob  is  man  voluntarily  descending  to 
the  nature  of  the  beast.  Its  fit  hour  of  activity 
is  night.  Its  actions  are  insane  like  its  whole 
constitution.  It  persecutes  a principle  ; it  would 
whip  a right ; it  would  tar  and  feather  justice,  by 
inflicting  fire  and  outrage  upon  the  houses  and 
persons  of  those  who  have  these.  It  resembles 
the  prank  of  boys  who  run  with  fire-engines  to 
put  out  the  ruddy  aurora  streaming  to  the  stars. 
The  inviolate  spirit  turns  their  spite  against  the 
wrong  doers.  The  martyr  cannot  be  dishonored. 
Every  lash  inflicted  is  a tongue  of  fame  ; every 
prison  a more  illustrious  abode  ; every  burned 
book  or  house  enlightens  the  world ; every  sup- 
pressed or  expunged  word  reverberates  through 
the  earth  from  side  to  side.  The  minds  of  men 


io8 


ESSAY  III. 


are  at  last  aroused ; reason  looks  out  and  justifies 
her  own,  and  malice  fifids  all  her  work  vain.  It 
is  the  whipper  who  is  whipped,  and  the  tyrant 
who  is  undone. 

Thus  do  all  things  preach  the  indifferency  of 
circumstances.  The  man  is  all.  Everything  has 
two  sides,  a good  and  an  evil.  Every  advantage 
has  its  tax.  I learn  to  be  content.  But  the  doc- 
trine of  compensation  is  not  the  doctrine  of  in- 
differency. The  thoughtless  say,  on  hearing  these 
representations, — What  boots  it  to  do  well?  there 
is  one  event  to  good  and  evil ; if  I gain  any  good, 
I must  pay  for  it ; if  I lose  any  good,  I gain  some 
other;  all  actions  are  indifferent. 

There  is  a deeper  fact  in  the  soul  than  com- 
pensation, to  wit,  its  own  nature.  The  soul  is  not  a 
compensation,  but  a life.  The  soul  u.  Under  all 
this  running  sea  of  circumstance,  whose  waters 
ebb  and  flow  with  perfect  balance,  lies  the  origi- 
nal abyss  of  real  Being.  Existence,  or  God,  is  not 
a relation,  or  a part,  but  the  whole.  Being  is  the 
vast  affirmative,  excluding  negation,  self-balanced, 
and  swallowing  up  all  relations,  parts  and  times, 
within  itself.  Nature,  truth,  virtue  are  the  influx 
from  thence.  Vice  is  the  absence  or  departure  of 
the  same.  Nothing,  Falsehood,  may  indeed  stand 
as  the  great  Night  or  shade,  on  which,  as  a back- 
ground, the  living  universe  paints  itself  forth  ; but 
no  fact  is  begotten  by  it ; it  cannot  work  ; for  it 
is  not.  It  cannot  work  any  good  ; it  cannot  work 


COMP E NS  A TION  1 09 

any  harm.  It  is  harm  inasmuch  as  it  is  worse  not 
to  be  than  to  be. 

We  feel  defrauded  of  the  retribution  due  to 
evil  acts,  because  the  criminal  adheres  to  his  vice 
and  contumacy,  and  does  not  come  to  a crisis  or 
judgment  anywhere  in  visible  nature.  There  is 
no  stunning  confutation  of  his  nonsense  before 
men  and  angels*  Has  he  therefore  outwitted  the 
law  ? Inasmuch  as  he  carries  the  malignity  and 
the  lie  with  him,  he  so  far  deceases  from  nature. 
In  some  manner  there  will  be  a demonstration  of 
the  wrong  to  the  understanding  also ; but  should 
we  not  see  it,  this  deadly  deduction  makes  square 
the  eternal  account. 

Neither  can  it  be  said,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
the  gain  of  rectitude  must  be  bought  by  any  loss. 
There  is  no  penalty  to  virtue  ; no  penalty  to  wis- 
dom ; they  are  proper  additions  of  being.  In  a 
virtuous  action,  I properly  am  ; in  a virtuous  act, 
I add  to  the  world  ; I plant  into  deserts  conquered 
from  Chaos  and  Nothing,  and  see  the  darkness  re- 
ceding on  the  limits  of  the  horizon.  There  can 
be  no  excess  to  love ; none  to  knowledge  ; none 
to  beauty,  when  these  attributes  are  considered  in 
the  purest  sense.  The  soul  refuses  all  limits.  It 
affirms  in  man  always  an  Optimism,  never  a Pes- 
simism. 

His  life  is  a progress,  and  not  a station.  His 
instinct  is  trust.  Our  instinct  uses  ‘‘more”  and 
“less”  in  application  to  man,  always  of  i\iQ  pres- 
ence of  the  souU  not  of  its  absence ; the  brave 
man  is  greater  than  the  coward  ; the  true,  the 


no 


ESSAY  III. 


benevolent,  the  wise,  is  more  a man  and  not  less, 
than  the  fool  and  knave.  There  is,  therefore,  no 
tax  on  the  good  of  virtue;  for,  that  is  the  incom- 
ing of  God  himself,  or  absolute  existence,  without 
any  comparative.  All  external  good  has  its  tax, 
and  if  it  came  without  desert  or  sweat,  has  no 
root  in  me  and  the  next  wind  will  blow  it  away. 
But  all  the  good  of  nature  is  the  soul’s,  and  may 
be  had,  if  paid  for  in  nature’s  lawful  coin,  that  is, 
by  labor  which  the  heart  and  the  head  allow.  I 
no  longer  wish  to  meet  a good  I do  not  earn,  for 
example,  to  find  a pot  of  buried  gold,  knowing 
that  it  brings  with  it  new  responsibility.  I do  not 
wish  more  external  goods, — neither  possessions, 
nor  honors,  nor  powers,  nor  persons.  The  gain  is 
apparent ; the  tax  is  certain.  But  there  is  no  tax 
on  the  knowledge  that  the  compensation  exists, 
and  that  it  is  not  desirable  to  dig  up  treasure. 
Herein  I rejoice  with  a serene  eternal  peace.  I 
contract  the  boundaries  of  possible  mischief.  I 
learn  the  wisdom  of  St.  Bernard,  Nothing  can 
work  me  damage  except  myself ; the  harm  that 
I sustain,  I carry  about  with  me,  and  never  am  a 
real  sufferer  but  by  my  own  fault.” 

In  the  nature  of  the  soul  is  the  compensation 
for  the  inequalities  of  condition.  The  radical 
tragedy  of  nature  seems  to  be  the  distinction  of 
More  and  Less.  How  can  Less  not  feel  the  pain  ; 
how  not  feel  indignation  or  malevolence  towards 
More  ? Look  at  those  who  have  less  faculty,  and 
one  feels  sad,  and  knows  not  well  what  to  make  of 
it.  Almost  he  shuns  their  eye ; almost  he  fears 


COMPENSA  TION. 


Ill 


they  will  upbraid  God.  What  should  they  do  ? It 
seems  a great  injustice.  But  face  the  facts,  and 
see  them  nearly,  and  these  mountainous  inequali- 
ties vanish.  Love  reduces  them  all,  as  the  sun 
melts  the  iceberg  in  the  sea.  The  heart  and  soul 
of  all  men  being  one,  this  bitterness  of  Hh  and 
Mine  ceases.  His  is  mine.  I am  my  brother,  and 
my  brother  is  me.  If  I feel  overshadowed  and 
outdone  by  great  neighbors,  I can  yet  love ; I can 
still  receive ; and  he  that  loveth,  inaketh  his 
own  the  grandeur  he  loves.  Thereby  I make  the 
discovery  that  my  brother  is  my  guardian,  acting 
for  me  with  the  friendliest  designs,  and  the  estate 
I so  admired  and  envied,  is  my  own.  It  is  the 
eternal  nature  of  the  soul  to  appropriate  and 
make  all  things  its  own.  Jesus  and  Shakespeare 
are  fragments  of  the  soul,  and  by  love  I conquer 
and  incorporate  them  in  my  own  conscious  do- 
main. His  virtue, — is  not  that  mine  ? His  wit, 
— if  it  cannot  be  made  mine,  it  is  not  wit. 

Such,  also,  is  the  natural  history  of  calamity. 
The  changes  which  break  up  at  short  intervals 
the  prosperity  of  men,  are  advertisements  of  a na- 
ture whose  law  is  growth.  Evermore  it  is  the  or- 
der of  nature  to  grow,  and  every  soul  is  by  this  in- 
trinsic necessity  quitting  its  whole  system  of 
things,  its  friends,  and  home,  and  laws,  and  faith, 
as  the  shell-fish  crawls  out  of  its  beautiful  but 
stony  case,  because  it  no  longer  admits  of  its 
growth,  and  slowly  forms  a new  house.  In  pro- 
portion to  the  vigor  of  the  individual,  these  revo- 
lutions are  frequent,  until  in  some  happier  mind 


112 


ESSAY  II  L 


they  are  incessant,  and  all  worldly  relations  hang 
very  loosely  about  him,  becoming,  as  it  were,  a 
transparent  fluid  membrane  through  which  the 
form  is  always  seen,  and  not  as  in  most  men  an  in- 
durated heterogeneous  fabric  of  many  dates,  and 
of  no  settled  character,  in  which  the  man  is  im- 
prisoned. Then  there  can  be  enlargement,  and 
the  man  of  to-day  scarcely  recognizes  the  man  of 
yesterday.  And  such  should  be  the  outward  bi- 
ography of  man  in  time,  a putting  off  of  dead  cir- 
cumstances day  by  day,  as  he  renews  his  raiment 
day  by  day.  But  to  us,  in  our  lapsed  estate,  rest- 
ing not  advancing,  resisting  not  co-operating  with 
the  divine  expansion,  this  growth  comes  by 
shocks. 

We  cannot  part  with  our  friends.  We  cannot 
let  our  angels  go.  We  do  not  see  that  they  only 
go  out,  that  archangels  may  come  in.  We  are 
idolaters  of  the  old.  We  do  not  believe  in  the 
riches  of  the  soul,  in  its  proper  eternity  and  omni- 
presence. We  do  not  believe  there  is  any  force  in 
to-day  to  rival  or  re-create  that  beautiful  yester- 
day. We  linger  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  tent, 
where  once  we  had  bread  and  shelter  and  organs, 
nor  believe  that  the  spirit  can  feed,  cover,  and 
nerve  us  again.  We  cannot  find  aught  so  dear, 
so  sweet,  so  graceful.  But  we  sit  and  weep  in 
vain.  The  voice  of  the  Almighty  saith,  “ Up  and 
onward  forevermore  ! ” We  cannot  stay  amid  the 
ruins.  Neither  will  we  rely  on  the  New  ; and  so 
we  walk  ever  with  reverted  eyes,  like  those  mon- 
sters who  look  backwards. 


COMPENSA  no N. 


IIS 


And  yet  the  compensations  of  calamity  are 
made  apparent  to  the  understanding  also,  after 
long  intervals  of  time.  A fever,  a mutilation,  a 
cruel  disappointment,  a loss  of  wealth,  a loss  of 
friends  seems  at  the  moment  unpaid  loss,  and  un- 
payable. But  the  sure  years  reveal  the  deep  reme- 
dial force  that  underlies  all  facts.  The  death  of 
a dear  friend,  wife,  brother,  lover,  which  seemed 
nothing  but  privation,  somewhat  later  assumes 
the  aspect  of  a guide  or  genius  ; for  it  commonly 
operates  revolutions  in  our  way  of  life,  terminates 
an  epoch  of  infancy  or  of  youth  which  was  wait- 
ing to  be  closed,  breaks  up  a wonted  occupation, 
or  a household,  or  style  of  living,  and  allows  the 
formation  of  new  ones  more  friendly  to  the  growth 
of  character  It  permits  or  constrains  the  forma- 
tion of  new  acquaintances,  and  the  reception  of 
new  influences  that  prove  of  the  first  importance 
to  the  next  years ; and  the  man  or  woman  who 
would  have  remained  a sunny  garden  flower,  with 
no  room  for  its  roots  and  too  much  sunshine  for 
its  head,  by  the  falling  of  the  walls  and  the  neglect 
of  the  gardener,  is  made  the  banian  of  the  forest, 
yielding  shade  and  fruit  to  wide  neighborhoods  of 
men. 


8 


; : h .V 


: ■"  '•t  :.i’ 
J,'.  ; 
• - /!  f.. 


T'  ^ r..:.-^-  , ' v^.-; ' ~ :V. 

^‘ /;.  ■ 

. ■■ 

1,.;  ' ,• 

,■'  ' ■ _;  .,  ,i’ 

1 ' I’u. 

'i.  ;m  - 

’■  '•■  ■ ->J  -I.  ,'V'' 

. ; • i rx'idu  v7B^.}n''mi ■ . .;'i r-  .•' 

■ o-.'ii  f;«'. 

; :'<!,:%//; 

SI  I <dl,^ 


MWwt;'  - 1 ■■.“  ., 

KW'Hi  . Ti;.'.’- 
“^l  ' •■  . 


MV--'  »'-•>'.*•' 


, 'H  Ori 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


When  the  act  of  reflection  takes  place  in  the 
mind,  when  we  look  at  ourselves  in  the  light  of 
thought,  we  discover  that  our  life  is  embosomed 
in  beauty.  Behind  us,  as  we  go,  all  things  assume 
pleasing  forms,  as  clouds  do  far  off.  Not  only 
things  familiar  and  stale,  but  even  the  tragic  and 
terrible  are  comely,  as  they  take  their  place  in  the 
pictures  of  memory.  The  river-bank,  the  weed 
at  the  water-side,  the  old  house,  the  foolish  per- 
son,— however  neglected  in  the  passing, — have  a 
grace  in  the  past.  Even  the  corpse  that  has  lain 
in  the  chambers  has  added  a solemn  ornament  to 
the  house.  The  soul  will  not  know  either  deform- 
ity or  pain.  If  in  the  hours  of  clear  reason  we 
should  speak  the  severest  truth,  we  should  say, 
that  we  had  never  made  a sacrifice.  In  these 
hours  the  mind  seems  so  great,  that  nothing  can 
be  taken  from  us  that  seems  much.  All  loss,  all 
pain  is  particular : the  universe  remains  to  the 
heart  unhurt.  Distress  never,  trifles  never  abate 
our  trust.  No  man  ever  stated  his  griefs  as 
lightly  as  he  might.  Allow  for  exaggeration  in 

(117) 


ii8 


ESS  A Y IV. 


the  most  patient  and  sorely  ridden  hack  that  ever 
was  driven.  For  it  is  only  the  finite  that  has 
wrought  and  suffered ; the  infinite  lies  stretched 
in  smiling  repose. 

The  intellectual  life  may  be  kept  clean  and 
healthful,  if  man  will  live  the  life  of  nature,  and 
not  import  into  his  mind  difficulties  which  are 
none  of  his.  No  man  need  be  perplexed  in  his 
speculations.  Let  him  do  and  say  what  strictlj" 
belongs  to  him,  and  though  ver}^  ignorant  of 
books,  his  nature  shall  not  yield  him  any  intel- 
lectual obstructions  and  doubts.  Our  young  peo- 
ple are  diseased  with  the  theological  problems  of 
original  sin,  origin  of  evil,  predestination,  and  the 
like.  These  never  presented  a practical  difficulty 
to  any  man, — never  darkened  across  any  man’s 
road,  who  did  not  go  out  of  his  way  to  seek  them. 
These  are  the  soul’s  mumps  and  measles,  and 
whooping-coughs,  and  those  who  have  not  caught 
them,  cannot  describe  their  health  or  prescribe  the 
cure.  A simple  mind  will  not  know  these  ene- 
mies. It  is  quite  another  thing  that  he  should  be 
able  to  give  account  of  his  faith,  and  expound  to 
another  the  theory  of  his  self-union  and  freedom. 
This  requires  rare  gifts.  Yet  without  this  self- 
knowledge,  there  may  be  a sylvan  strengtli  and 
integrity  in  that  which  he  is.  A few  strong  in- 
stincts and  a few  plain  rules  ” suffice  us. 

My  will  never  gave  the  images  in  m3"  mind  the 
rank  they  now  take.  The  regular  course  of  stud- 
ies, the  years  of  academical  and  professional  edu- 
cation have  not  yielded  me  better  facts  than  some 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


119 

idle  books  under  the  bench  at  the  Latin  school. 
What  we  do  not  call  education  is  more  precious 
than  that  which  we  call  so.  We  form  no  guess  at 
the  time  of  receiving  a thought,  of  its  compara- 
tive value.  And  education  often  wastes  its  effort 
in  attempts  to  thwart  and  baulk  this  natural  mag- 
netism which  with  sure  discrimination  selects  its 
own. 

In  like  manner,  our  moral  nature  is  vitiated  by 
any  interference  of  our  will.  People  represent 
virtue  as  a struggle,  and  take  to  themselves  great 
airs  upon  their  attainments,  and  the  question  is 
everywhere  vexed,  when  a noble  nature  is  com- 
mended, Whether  the  man  is  not  better  who 
strives  with  temptation?  But  there  is  no  merit 
in  the  matter.  Either  God  is  there,  or  he  is  not 
there.  We  love  characters  in  proportion  as  they 
are  impulsive  and  spontaneous.  The  less  a man 
thinks  or  knows  about  his  virtues,  the  better  we 
like  him.  Timoleon’s  victories  are  the  best  vic- 
tories ; which  ran  and  flowed  like  Homer’s  verses^ 
Plutarch  said.  When  we  see  a soul  whose  acts 
are  all  regal,  graceful  and  pleasant  as  roses,  we 
must  thank  God  that  such  things  can  be  and  are^ 
and  not  turn  sourly  on  the  angel,  and  say,  ‘‘  Crump 
is  a better  man  with  his  grunting  resistance  to  all 
his  native  devils.” 

Not  less  conspicuous  is  the  preponderance  of 
nature  over  will  in  all  practical  life.  There  is  less 
intention  in  history  than  we  ascribe  to  it.  We 
impute  deep-laid,  far-sighted  plans  to  Caesar  and 
Napoleon ; but  the  best  of  their  power  was  in 


120 


ESS  A Y lY 


nature,  not  in  them.  Men  of  an  extraordinary 
success,  in  their  honest  moments,  have  always 
sung,  ^‘Not  unto  us,  not  unto  us.”  According  to 
the  faith  of  their  times,  they  have  built  altars  to 
Fortune  or  to  Destiny,  or  to  St.  Julian.  Their 
success  la}^  in  their  parallelism  to  the  course  of 
thought,  which  found  in  them  an  unobstructed 
channel ; and  the  wonders  of  which  they  were 
the  visible  conductors,  seemed  to  the  eye  their 
deed.  Did  the  wires  generate  the  galvanism  ? It 
is  even  true  that  there  was  less  in  them  on  which 
they  could  reflect,  than  in  another ; as  the  virtue 
of  a pipe  is  to  be  smooth  and  hollow.  That  which 
externally  seemed  will  and  immovableness,  was 
willingness  and  self-annihilation.  Could  Shakes- 
peare give  a theory  of  Shakespeare  ? Could  ever 
a man  of  prodigious  mathematical  genius  convey 
to  others  any  insight  into  his  methods?  If  he 
could  communicate  that  secret,  instantly  it  would 
lose  all  its  exaggerated  value,  blending  with  the 
day-light  and  the  vital  energy,  the  power  to  stand 
and  to  go. 

The  lesson  is  forcibly  taught  by  these  observa- 
tions that  our  life  might  be  much  easier  and  sim- 
pler than  we  make  it,  that  the  world  might  be  a 
happier  place  than  it  is,  that  there  is  no  need  of 
struggles,  convulsions,  and  despairs,  of  the  wring- 
ing of  the  hands  and  the  gnashing  of  the  teeth  ; 
that  we  miscreate  our  own  evils.  We  interfere 
with  the  optimism  of  nature,  for,  whenever  we 
get  this  vantage-ground  of  the  past,  or  of  a wiser 
mind  in  the  present,  we  are  able  to  discern  that 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


I2I 


we  are  begirt  with  spiritual  laws  which  execute 
themselves. 

The  face  of  external  nature  teaches  the  same 
lesson  with  calm  superiority.  Nature  will  not 
have  us  fret  and  fume.  She  does  not  like  our 
benevolence  or  our  learning,  much  better  than  she 
likes  our  frauds  and  wars.  When  we  come  out 
of  the  caucus,  or  the  bank,  or  the  Abolition  con- 
vention, or  the  Temperance  meeting,  or  the  Tran- 
scendental club,  into  the  fields  and  woods,  she 
says  to  us,  ^‘So  hot?  my  little  sir.” 

We  are  full  of  mechanical  actions.  We  must 
needs  intermeddle,  and  have  things  in  our  own 
way,  until  the  sacrifices  and  virtues  of  society 
are  odious.  Love  should  make  joy;  but  our 
benevolence  is  unhappy.  Our  Sunday  schools 
and  churches  and  pauper-societies  are  yokes  to 
the  neck.  We  pain  ourselves  to  please  nobody. 
There  are  natural  ways  of  arriving  at  the  same 
ends  at  which  these  aim,  but  do  not  arrive.  Why 
should  all  virtue  work  in  one  and  the  same  way  ? 
Why  should  all  give  dollars  ? It  is  very  incon- 
venient to  us  country  folk,  and  we  do  not  think 
any  good  will  come  of  it.  We  have  not  dollars. 
Merchants  have.  Let  them  give  them.  Farmers 
will  give  corn.  Poets  will  sing.  Women  will 
sew.  Laborers  will  lend  a hand.  The  children 
will  bring  flowers.  And  why  drag  this  dead 
weight  of  a Sunday  school  over  the  whole  Chris- 
tendom ? It  is  natural  and  beautiful  that  child- 
hood should  inquire,  and  maturity  should  teach ; 
but  it  is  time  enough  to  answer  questions,  when 


122 


ESSAV  VI. 


they  are  asked.  Do  not  shut  up  the  young  people 
against  their  will  in  a pew,  and  force  the  children 
to  ask  them  questions  for  an  hour  against  their 
will. 

If  we  look  wider,  things  are  all  alike  ; laws,  and 
letters,  and  creeds  and  inodes  of  living,  seem  a 
travesty  of  truth.  Our  society  is  encumbered  by 
ponderous  machinery  which  resembles  the  endless 
aqueducts  which  the  Romans  built  over  hill  and 
dale,  and  which  are  superseded  by  the  discovery 
of  the  law  that  water  rises  to  the  level  of  its 
source.  It  is  a Chinese  wall  which  an}’  nimble 
Ta?  tar  can  leap  over.  It  is  a standing  army,  not 
so  good  as  a peace.  It  is  a graduated,  titled,  richly 
appointed  Empire,  quite  superfluous  when  Town- 
meetings  are  found  to  answer  just  as  well. 

Let  us  draw  a lesson  from  nature,  which  always 
works  by  short  ways.  When  the  fruit  is  ripe,  it 
falls.  When  the  fruit  is  despatched,  the  leaf  falls. 
The  circuit  of  the  w'aters  is  mere  falling.  The 
walking  of  man  and  all  animals  is  a falling  for- 
ward. All  our  manual  labor  and  words  of  strength, 
as  prying,  splitting,  digging,  rowing,  and  so  forth, 
are  done  by  dint  of  continual  falling,  and  the 
globe,  earth,  moon,  comet,  sun,  star,  fall  forever 
and  ever. 

The  simplicity  of  the  universe  is  very  different 
from  the  simplicity  of  a machine.  He  who  sees 
moral  nature  out  and  out,  and  thoroughly  knows 
how  knowledge  is  acquired  and  cliaracter  formed, 
is  a pendant.  The  simplicity  of  nature  is  not  that 
which  mav  easilv  be  read,  but  is  inexhaustible. 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


123 


The  last  analysis  can  no  wise  be  made.  We  judge 
of  a man’s  wisdom  by  his  hope,  knowing  that  the 
perception  of  the  inexhaustibleness  of  nature  is  an 
immortal  youth.  The  wild  fertility  of  nature  is 
felt  in  comparing  our  rigid  names  and  reputations 
with  our  fluid  consciousness.  We  pass  in  the 
world  for  sects  and  schools,  for  erudition  and 
piety,  and  we  are  all  the  time  jejune  babes.  One 
sees  very  well  how  Pyrrhonism  grew  up.  Every 
man  sees  that  he  is  that  middle  point  whereof 
everything  may  be  affirmed  and  denied  with  equal 
reason.  He  is  old,  he  is  young,  he  is  very  wise, 
he  is  altogether  ignorant.  He  hears  and  feels 
what  you  say  of  the  seraphim,  and  of  the  tin- 
pedlar.  There  is  no  permanent  wise  man,  except 
in  the  figment  of  the  stoics.  We  side  with  the 
hero,  as  we  read  or  paint,  against  the  coward  and 
the  robber  ; but  we  have  been  ourselves  that  cow- 
ard and  robber,  and  shall  be  again,  not  in  the  low 
circumstance,  but  in  comparison  with  the  grandeurs 
possible  to  the  soul. 

A little  consideration  of  what  takes  place  around 
us  every  day,  would  show  us  that  a higher  law 
than  that  of  our  will,  regulates  events ; that  our 
painful  labors  are  very  unnecessary,  and  alto- 
gether fruitless  ; that  only  in  our  easy,  simple, 
spontaneous  action  are  we  strong,  and  by  content- 
ing ourselves  with  obedience  we  become  divine. 
Belief  and  love, — a believing  love  will  relieve  us 
of  a vast  load  of  care.  O my  brothers,  God  ex- 
ists. There  is  a soul  at  the  centre  of  nature,  and 
over  the  will  of  every  man,  so  that  none  of  us  can 


124 


ESSA  V IV. 


wrong  the  universe.  It  has  so  infused  its  strong 
enchantment  into  nature,  that  we  prosper  when 
we  accept  its  advice,  and  when  we  struggle  to 
wound  its  creatures,  our  hands  are  glued  to  our 
sides,  or  they  beat  our  own  breasts.  The  whole 
course  of  things  goes  to  teach  us  faith.  We  need 
only  obey.  There  is  guidance  for  each  of  us,  and 
by  lowly  listening  we  shall  hear  the  right  word. 
Why  need  you  choose  so  painfully  your  place,  and 
occupation,  and  associates,  and  modes  of  action, 
and  of  entertainment?  Certainly  there  is  a 
possible  right  for  you  that  precludes  the  need  of 
balance  and  wilful  election.  For  you  there  is  a 
reality,  a fit  place  and  congenial  duties.  Place 
yourself  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  of  power  and 
wisdom  which  flows  into  you  as  life,  place  3^ourself 
in  the  full  centre  of  that  flood,  then  you  are  without 
effort  impelled  to  truth,  to  right,  and  a perfect 
contentment.  Then  you  put  all  gainsayers  in  the 
wrong.  Then  you  are  the  world,  the  measure  of 
right,  of  truth,  of  beauty.  If  we  will  not  be  mar- 
plots with  our  miserable  interferences,  the  work, 
the  society,  letters,  arts,  science,  religion  of  men, 
would  go  on  far  better  than  now,  and  the  Heaven 
predicted  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  and 
still  predicted  from  the  bottom  of  the  heart,  would 
organize  itself,  as  do  now  the  rose  and  the  air  and 
the  sun. 

I say,  do  not  choose ; but  that  is  a figure  of 
speech  by  which  I would  distinguish  what  is  com- 
monly called  choice  among  men,  and  which  is  a 
partial  act,  the  choice  of  the  hands,  of  the  eyeSy  of 


SPIRITUAL  LAPPS, 


125 


the  appetites,  and  not  a whole  act  of  the  man. 
But  that  which  I call  right  or  goodness,  is  the 
choice  of  my  constitution ; and  that  which  I call 
heaven,  and  inwardly  aspire  after,  is  the  state  or 
circumstance  desirable  to  my  constitution  ; and 
the  action  which  I in  all  my  years  tend  to  do,  is 
the  work  for  my  faculties.  We  must  hold  a man 
amenable  to  reason  for  the  choice  of  his  daily  craft 
or  profession.  It  is  not  an  excuse  any  longer  for 
his  deeds  that  they  are  the  custom  of  his  trade. 
What  business  has  he  with  an  evil  trade?  Has  he 
not  a calling  in  his  character  ? 

Each  man  has  his  own  vocation.  The  talent  is 
the  call.  There  is  one  direction  in  which  all  space 
is  open  to  him.  He  has  faculties  silently  inviting 
him  thither  to  endless  exertion.  He  is  like  a ship 
in  a river  ; he  runs  against  obstructions  on  every 
side  but  one  ; on  that  side,  all  obstruction  is  taken 
away,  and  he  sweeps  serenely  over  God’s  depths 
into  an  infinite  sea.  This  talent  and  this  call  de- 
pend on  his  organization,  or  the  mode  in  which 
the  general  soul  incarnates  itself  in  him.  He  in- 
clines to  do  something  which  is  easy  to  him,  and 
good  when  it  is  done,  but  which  no  other  man  can 
do.  He  has  no  rival.  For  the  more  truly  he  con- 
sults his  own  powers,  the  more  difference  will  his 
work  exhibit  from  the  work  of  any  other.  When 
he  is  true  and  faithful,  his  ambition  is  exactly  pro- 
portioned to  his  powers.  The  height  of  the  pin- 
nacle is  determined  by  the  breadth  of  the  base. 
Every  man  has  this  call  of  the  power  to  do  some- 
what unique,  and  no  man  has  any  other  call.  The 


126 


ESSA  V IV. 


pretence  that  he  has  another  call,  a summons  by 
name  and  personal  election  and  outward  signs 
that  mark  him  extraordinary,  and  not  in  the  roll 
of  common  men,”  is  fanaticism,  and  betrays  ob- 
tuseness to  perceive  that  there  is  one  mind  in  all 
the  individuals,  and  no  respect  of  persons  therein. 

By  doing  his  work,  he  makes  the  need  felt 
which  he  can  supply.  He  creates  the  taste  by 
which  he  is  enjoyed.  He  provokes  the  wants  to 
which  he  can  minister.  doing  his  own  work, 
he  unfolds  himself.  It  is  the  vice  of  our  public 
speaking,  that  it  has  not  abandonment.  Some- 
where, not  only  every  orator  but  every  man  should 
let  out  all  the  length  of  all  the  reins  ; should  find 
or  make  a frank  and  hearty  expression  of  what 
force  and  meaning  is  in  him.  llie  common  ex- 
perience is,  that  the  man  fits  himself  as  well  as  he 
can  to  the  customary  details  of  that  work  or  trade 
he  falls  into,  and  tends  it  as  a dog  turns  a spit. 
Then  lie  is  a part  of  the  machine  he  moves  ; the 
man  is  lost.  Until  he  can  manage  to  communicate 
himself  to  others  in  his  full  stature  and  proportion 
as  a wise  and  good  man,  he  does  not  yet  find  his 
vocation.  He  must  find  in  that  an  outlet  for  his 
character,  so  that  he  may  justify  himself  to  their 
e}^es  for  doing  what  he  does.  If  the  labor  is  triv- 
ial, let  him  by  his  thinking  and  character,  make  it 
liberal.  Whatever  he  knows  and  thinks,  what- 
ever in  his  apprehension  is  worth  doing,  that  let 
him  communicate,  or  men  will  never  know  and 
honor  him  aright.  Foolish,  whenever  you  take 
the  meanness  and  formality  of  that  thing  you  do, 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS.  12/ 

instead  of  converting  it  into  the  oDedient  spiracie 
of  your  character  and  aims. 

We  like  such  actions  as  have  already  long  had 
the  praise  of  men,  and  do  not  perceive  that  any- 
thing  man  can  do,  may  be  divinely  done.  We 
think  greatness  entailed  or  organized  in  some 
places  or  duties,  in  certain  offices  or  occasions, 
and  do  not  see  that  Paganini  can  extract  rapture 
from  a catgut,  and  Eulensteiii  from  a jews-harp, 
and  a nimbled-fingered  lad  out  of  shreds  of  paper 
with  his  scissors ; and  Landseer  out  of  swine,  and 
the  hero  out  of  the  pitiful  habitation  and  company 
in  which  he  was  hidden.  What  we  call  obscure 
condition  or  vulgar  society,  is  that  condition  and 
society  whose  poetry  is  not  yet  written,  but  which 
you  shall  presently  make  as  enviable  and  re- 
nowned as  any.  Accept  your  genius,  and  say 
what  you  think.  In  our  estimates,  let  us  take  a 
lesson  from  kings.  The  parts  of  hospitalit}^,  the 
connection  of  families,  the  impressiveness  of 
death,  and  a thousand  other  things,  royalty  makes 
its  own  estimate  of,  and  a royal  mind  will.  To 
make  habitually  a new  estimate, — that  is  eleva- 
tion. 

What  a man  does,  that  he  has.  What  has  he  to 
do  with  hope  or  fear?  In  himself  is  his  might. 
Let  him  regard  no  good  as  solid,  but  that  which  is 
in  his  nature,  and  which  must  grow  out  of  him  as 
long  as  he  exists.  The  goods  of  fortune  may 
come  and  go  like  summer  leaves ; let  him  play 
with  them,  and  scatter  them  on  every  wind  as  the 
momentary  signs  of  his  infinite  productiveness. 


128 


ESSAV  IK 


Me  may  nave  his  own.  A man's  genius,  the 
quality  that  differences  him  from  every  other,  the 
susceptibility  to  one  class  of  influences,  the  selec- 
tion of  what  is  fit  for  him,  the  rejection  of  what 
is  unfit,  determines  for  him  the  character  of  the 
universe.  As  a man  thinketh,  so  is  he,  and  as  u 
man  chooseth,  so  is  he  and  so  is  nature.  A man 
is  a method,  a progressive  arrangement ; a select- 
ing principle,  gathering  his  like  to  him,  wherever 
he  goes.  He  takes  only  his  own,  out  of  the  mul- 
tiplicity that  sweeps  and  circles  round  him.  He 
is  like  one  of  those  booms  which  are  set  out  from 
the  shore  on  rivers  to  catch  drift-wood,  or  like  the 
loadstone  amongst  splinters  of  steel. 

Those  facts,  words,  persons  which  dwell  in  his 
memory  without  his  being  able  to  say  why,  re- 
main, because  they  have  a relation  to  him  not  less 
real  for  being  as  yet  unapprehended.  They  are 
symbols  of  value  to  him,  as  they  can  interpret 
parts  of  his  consciousness  which  he  would  vainly 
seek  words  for  in  the  conventional  images  of 
books  and  other  minds.  What  attracts  my  atten- 
tion shall  have  it,  as  I will  go  to  the  man  who 
knocks  at  my  door,  whilst  a thousand  persons,  as 
worthy,  go  by  it,  to  whom  I give  no  regard.  It 
is  enough  that  these  particulars  speak  to  me.  A 
few  anecdotes,  a few  traits  of  character,  manners, 
face,  a few  incidents  have  an  emphasis  in  your 
memory  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  apparent 
significance,  if  you  measure  them  by  the  ordinary 
standards.  They  relate  to  your  gift.  Let  them 
have  their  weight,  and  do  not  reject  them  and 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS, 


129 


cast  about  for  illustration  and  facts  more  usual  in 
literature.  Respect  them,  for  they  have  their 
origin  in  deepest  nature.  What  your  heart  thinks 
great,  is  great.  The  soul’s  emphasis  is  always 
right. 

Over  all  things  that  are  agreeable  to  his  nature 
and  genius,  the  man  has  the  highest  right.  Every- 
where he  may  take  what  belongs  to  his  spiritual 
estate,  nor  can  he  take  anything  else,  though  all 
doors  were  open,  nor  can  all  the  force  of  men 
hinder  him  from  taking  so  much.  It  is  vain  to 
attempt  to  keep  a secret  from  one  who  has  a right 
to  know  it.  It  will  tell  itself.  That  mood  into 
which  a friend  can  bring  us,  is  his  dominion  over 
us.  To  the  thoughts  of  that  state  of  mind,  he  has 
a right.  All  the  secrets  of  that  state  of  mind,  he 
can  compel.  This  is  a law  which  statesmen  use 
in  practice.  All  the  terrors  of  the  French  Re- 
public, which  held  Austria  in  awe,  were  unable  to 
command  her  diplomacy.  But  Napoleon  sent  to 
Vienna  M.  de  Narbonne,  one  of  the  old  noblesse, 
with  the  morals,  manners  and  name  of  that 
interest,  saying,  that  it  was  indispensable  to  send 
to  the  old  aristocracy  of  Europe,  men  of  the  same 
connection,  which,  in  fact,  constitutes  a sort  of 
free  masonry.  M.  Narbonne,  in  less  than  a fort- 
night, penetrated  all  the  secrets  of  the  Imperial 
Cabinet. 

A mutual  understanding  is  ever  the  firmest 
chain.  Nothing  seems  so  easy  as  to  speak  and  to 
be  understood.  Yet  a man  may  come  to  find  that 
the  strongest  of  defences  and  of  ties, — that  he  has 

9 


130 


ESSA  V IV, 


been  understood;  and  he  who  has  received  an 
opinion,  may  come  to  find  it  the  most  incon- 
venient of  bonds. 

If  a teacher  have  any  opinion  which  he  wishes 
to  conceal,  his  pupils  will  become  as  fully  indoc- 
trinated into  that  as  into  any  which  he  publishes. 
If  you  pour  water  into  a vessel  twisted  into  coils 
and  angles,  it  is  vain  to  say,  I will  pour  it  only 
into  this  or  that ; — it  will  find  its  own  level  in  all. 
Men  feel  and  act  the  consequences  of  your  doc- 
trine, without  being  able  to  show  how  they 
follow.  Show  us  an  arc  of  the  curve,  and  a good 
mathematician  will  find  out  the  whole  figure. 
We  are.  always  reasoning  from  the  seen  to  the  un- 
seen. Hence  the  perfect  intelligence  that  subsists 
between  wise  men  of  remote  ages.  A man  cannot 
bury  his  meanings  so  deep  in  his  book,  but  time 
and  like-minded  men  will  find  them.  Plato  had  a 
secret  doctrine,  had  he  ? What  secret  can  he  con- 
ceal from  the  eyes  of  Bacon?  of  Montaigne?  of 
Kant?  Therefore,  Aristotle  said  of  his  works, 

The}^  are  published  and  not  published.” 

No  man  can  learn  what  he  has  not  preparation 
for  learning,  however  near  to  his  e}^es  is  the  object. 
A chemist  may  tell  his  most  precious  secrets  to  a 
carpenter,  and  he  shall  be  never  tlie  wiser, — the 
secrets  he  would  not  utter  to  a chemist  for  an 
estate.  God  screens  us  evermore  from  premature 
ideas.  Our  eyes  are  holden  that  we  cannot  see 
things  that  stare  us  in  the  face,  until  tlie  hour 
arrives  when  the  mind  is  ripened, — then  we  be- 


SPIRITUAL  laws:  I31 

hold  them,  and  the  time  when  we  saw  them  not, 
is  like  a dream. 

Not  in  nature  but  in  man  is  all  the  beauty  and 
worth  he  sees.  The  world  is  very  empty,  and  is 
indebted  to  this  gilding,  exalting  soul  for  all  its 
pride.  Earth  fills  her  lap  with  splendors  ” not 
her  own.  The  vale  of  Tempe,  Tivoli,  and  Rome 
are  earth  and  water,  rocks  and  sky.  There  are  as 
good  earth  and  water  in  a thousand  places,  yet 
how  unaffecting ! 

People  are  not  the  better  for  the  sun  and  moon, 
the  horizon  and  the  trees ; as  it  is  not  observed 
that  the  keepers  of  Roman  galleries,  or  the  valets 
of  painters  have  any  elevation  of  thought,  or  that 
librarians  are  wiser  men  than  others.  There  are 
graces  in  the  demeanor  of  a polished  and  noble 
person,  which  are  lost  upon  the  eye  of  a churl. 
These  are  like  the  stars  whose  light  has  not  yet 
reached  us. 

He  may  see  what  he  maketh.  Our  dreams  are 
the  sequel  of  our  waking  knowledge.  The  vis- 
ions of  the  night  always  bear  some  proportion  to 
the  visions  of  the  day.  Hideous  dreams  are  only 
exaggerations  of  the  sins  of  the  day.  We  see  our 
own  evil  affections  embodied  in  bad  physiogno- 
mies. On  the  Alps,  the  traveller  sometimes  sees 
his  own  shadow  magnified  to  a giant,  so  that 
every  gesture  of  his  hand  is  terrific.  My  chil- 
dren,” said  an  old  man  to  his  boys  scared  by  a 
figure  in  the  dark  entry,  “ my  children  you  will 
never  see  anything  worse  than  yourselves.”  As 
in  dreams,  so  in  the  scarcely  less  fluid  events  of 


132 


ESS  A V IV. 


the  world,  every  man  sees  himself  in  colossal, 
without  knowing  that  it  is  himself  that  he  sees. 
The  good  which  he  sees,  compared  to  the  evil 
which  he  sees,  is  as  his  own  good  to  his  own  evil. 
Every  quality  of  his  mind  is  magnified  in  some 
one  acquaintance,  and  every  emotion  of  his  heart 
in  some  one.  He  is  like  a quincunx  of  trees, 
which  counts  five,  east,  west,  north,  or  south ; or, 
an  initial,  medial,  and  terminal  acrostic.  And 
why  not?  He  cleaves  to  one  person,  and  avoids 
another,  according  to  their  likeness  or  unlikeness 
to  himself,  truly  seeking  himself  in  his  associates, 
and  moreover  in  his  trade,  and  habits,  and  ges- 
tures, and  meats,  and  drinks ; and  comes  at  last 
to  be  faithfully  represented  by  every  view  you 
take  of  his  circumstances. 

He  may  read  what  he  writeth.  What  can  we 
see  or  acquire,  but  what  we  are  ? You  have  seen 
a skilful  man  reading  Virgil.  Well,  that  author 
is  a thousand  books  to  a thousand  persons.  Take 
the  book  into  your  two  hands,  and  read  your  eyes 
out ; you  will  never  find  what  I find.  If  any 
ingenious  reader  would  have  a monopoly  of  the 
wisdom  or  delight  he  gets,  he  is  as  secure  now  the 
book  is  Englished,  as  if  it  were  imprisoned  in  the 
Pelews  tongue.  It  is  with  a good  book  as  it  is 
with  good  company.  Introduce  a base  person 
among  gentlemen ; it  is  all  to  no  purpose  ; he  is 
not  their  fellow.  Every  society  protects  itself. 
The  company  is  perfectly  safe,  and  he  is  not  one 
of  them,  though  his  bod}^  is  in  the  room. 

What  avails  it  to  fight  with  the  eternal  laws  of 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


133 


mind,  which  adjust  the  relation  of  all  persons  to 
each  other,  by  the  mathematical  measure  of  their 
havings  and  beings?  Gertrude  is  enamored  of 
Guy ; how  high,  how  aristocratic,  how  Roman  his 
mien  and  manners ! to  live  with  him  were  life  in- 
deed; and  no  purchase  is  too  great;  and  heaven 
and  earth  are  moved  to  that  end.  Well,  Gert- 
rude has  Guy:  but  what  now  avails  how  high, 
how  aristocratic,  how  Roman  his  mien  and  man- 
ners, if  his  heart  and  aims  are  in  the  senate,  in 
the  theatre,  and  in  the  billiard-room,  and  she  has 
no  aims,  no  conversation  that  can  enchant  her 
graceful  lord? 

He  shall  have  his  own  society.  We  can  love 
nothing  but  nature.  The  most  wonderful  talents, 
the  most  meritorious  exertions  really  avail  very 
little  with  us ; but  nearness  or  likeness  of  nature 
— how  beautiful  is  the  ease  of  its  victoiy ! Per- 
sons approach  us  famous  for  their  beauty,  for 
their  accomplishments,  worthy  of  all  wonder  for 
their  charms  and  gifts : they  dedicate  their  whole 
skill  to  the  hour  and  the  company;  with  very  im- 
perfect result.  To  be  sure,  it  would  be  very  un- 
grateful in  us  not  to  praise  them  very  loudly. 
Then,  when  all  is  done,  a person  of  related  mind, 
a brother  or  sister  by  nature,  comes  to  us  so  softly 
and  easily,  so  nearly  and  intimately,  as  if  it  were 
the  blood  in  our  proper  veins,  that  we  feel  as  if 
some  one  was  gone,  instead  of  another  having 
come  ; we  are  utterly  relieved  and  refreshed ; it  is 
a sort  of  joyful  solitude.  We  foolishly  think,  in 
our  days  of  sin,  that  we  must  court  friends  by 


134 


ESS  A Y IV. 


compliance  to  the  customs  of  society,  to  its  dress, 
its  breeding  and  its  estimates.  But  later,  if  we 
are  so  happy,  we  learn  that  only  that  soul  can  be 
my  friend,  which  I encounter  on  the  line  of  my 
own  mai  ch,  that  soul  to  which  I do  not  decline, 
and  which  does  not  decline  to  me,  but,  native  of 
the  same  celestial  latitude,  repeats  in  its  own  all 
my  experience.  The  scholar  and  the  prophet  for- 
get themselves,  and  ape  the  customs  and  costumes 
of  the  man  of  the  world,  to  deserve  the  smile  of 
beauty.  He  is  a fool  and  follows  some  giddy 
girl,  and  not  with  religious,  ennobling  passion,  a 
woman  with  all  that  is  serene,  oracular  and  beau- 
tiful in  her  soul.  Let  him  be  great,  and  love  shall 
follow  him.  Nothing  is  more  deeply  punished 
than  the  neglect  of  the  affinities  by  which  alone 
society  should  be  formed,  and  the  insane  levity  of 
choosing  associates  by  others’  eyes. 

He  may  set  his  own  rate.  It  is  an  universal 
maxim  worthy  of  all  acceptation,  that  a man  may 
have  that  allowance  he  takes.  Take  the  place 
and  attitude  to  which  you  see  your  unquestion- 
able right,  and  all  men  acquiesce.  The  world 
must  be  just.  It  always  leaves  every  man  with 
profound  unconcern  to  set  his  own  rate.  Hero  or 
driveller,  it  meddles  not  in  the  matter.  It  will 
certainly  accept  your  own  measure  of  your  doing 
and  being,  whether  you  sneak  about  and  deny 
your  own  name,  or,  whether  you  see  your  work 
produced  to  the  concave  sphere  of  the  heavens, 
one  with  the  revolution  of  the  stars. 

The  same  reality  pervades  all  teaching.  The 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


135 


man  may  teach  by  doing,  and  not  otherwise.  If 
he  can  communicate  himself,  he  can  teach,  but  not 
by  words.  He  teaches  who  gives,  and  he  learns 
who  receives.  There  is  no  teaching  until  the 
pupil  is  brought  into  the  same  state  or  principle 
in  which  you  are  ; a transfusion  takes  place  : he  is 
you,  and  you  are  he ; then  is  a teaching,  and  by 
no  unfriendly  chance  or  bad  company  can  he  ever 
quite  lose  the  benefit.  But  your  propositions  run 
out  of  one  ear  as  they  ran  in  at  the  other.  We 
see  it  advertised  that  Mr.  Grand  will  deliver  an 
oration  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  Mr.  Hand  be- 
fore the  Mechanics’  Association,  and  we  do  not 
go  thither,  because  we  know  that  these  gentlemen 
will  not  communicate  their  own  character  and 
being  to  the  audience.  If  we  had  reason  to  expect 
such  a communication,  we  should  go  through  all 
inconvenience  and  oppos  tion.  The  sick  would 
be  carried  in  litters.  But  a public  oration  is  an 
escapade,  a non  committal,  an  apology,  a gag,  and 
not  a communication,  not  a speech,  not  a man. 

A like  Nemesis  presides  over  all  intellectual 
works.  We  have  yet  to  learn  that  the  thing 
uttered  in  words  is  not  therefore  affirmed.  It 
must  affirm  itself,  or  no  forms  of  grammar  and  no 
plausibility  can  give  it  evidence,  and  no  array  of 
arguments.  The  sentence  must  also  contain  its 
own  apology  for  being  spoken. 

The  effect  of  any  writing  on  the  public  mind  is 
mathematically  measurable  by  its  depth  of  thought. 
How  much  water  does  it  draw?  If  it  awaken  you 
to  think  ; if  it  lift  you  from  your  feet  with  the 


136 


ESSA  V IV, 


great  voice  of  eloquence ; then  the  effect  is  to  be 
wide,  slow,  permanent,  over  the  minds  of  men  ; 
if  the  pages  instruct  you  not,  they  will  die  like 
flies  in  the  hour.  The  way  to  speak  and  write 
what  shall  not  go  out  of  fashion,  is  to  speak  and 
write  sincerely.  The  argument  which  has  not 
power  to  reach  my  own  practice,  I may  well 
doubt,  will  fail  to  reach  yours.  But  take  Sid- 
ney’s maxim:  “Look  in  thy  heart,  and  write.” 
He  that  writes  to  himself,  writes  to  an  eternal 
public.  That  statement  only  is  fit  to  be  made 
public  which  you  have  come  at  in  attempting  to 
satisfy  your  own  curiosity.  The  writer  who  takes 
his  subject  from  his  ear  and  not  from  his  heart, 
should  know  that  he  has  lost  as  mucli  as  he 
seems  to  have  gained,  and  when  the  empty  book 
has  gathered  all  its  praise,  and  half  the  people  say 
— what  poetry ! what  genius  ! ” it  still  needs  fuel 
to  make  fire.  That  only  profits  which  is  profit- 
able. Life  alone  can  impart  life ; and  though  we 
should  burst,  we  can  only  be  valued  as  we  make 
ourselves  valuable.  There  is  no  luck  in  literary 
reputation.  They  who  make  up  the  final  verdict 
upon  every  book,  are  not  the  partial  and  noisy 
readers  of  the  hour  when  it  appears ; but  a court 
as  of  angels,  a public  not  to  be  bribed,  not  to  be 
entreated,  and  not  to  be  overawed,  decides  upon 
every  man’s  title  to  fame.  Only  those  books  come 
down  which  deserve  to  last.  All  the  gilt  edges 
and  vellum  and  morocco,  all  the  presentation- 
copies  to  all  the  libraries  will  not  preserve  a book 
in  circulation  beyond  its  intrinsic  date.  It  must 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


137 


go  with  all  Walpole’s  Noble  and  Royal  Authors  to 
its  fate.  Blackmore,  Kotzebue,  or  Pollok  may 
endure  for  a night,  but  Moses  and  Homer  stand 
forever.  There  are  not  in  the  world  at  any  one 
time  more  than  a dozen  persons  who  read  and  un- 
derstand Plato : — never  enough  to  pay  for  an  edi- 
tion of  his  works ; yet  to  every  generation  these 
come  duly  down,  for  the  sake  of  those  few  per- 
sons, as  if  God  brought  them  in  his  hand.  No 
book,”  said  Bentley,  was  ever  written  down  by 
any  but  itself.”  The  permanence  of  all  books  is 
fixed  by  no  effort  friendly  or  hostile,  but  by  their 
own  specific  gravity,  or  the  intrinsic  importance 
of  their  contents  to  the  constant  mind  of  man. 
‘‘  Do  not  trouble  yourself  too  much  about  tlie 
light  on  your  statue,”  said  Michael  Angelo  to  the 
young  sculptor ; the  light  of  the  public  square 
will  test  its  value.” 

In  like  manner  the  effect  of  every  action  is 
measured  by  the  depth  of  the  sentiment  from 
which  it  proceeds.  The  great  man  knew  not  that 
he  was  great.  It  took  a century  or  two,  for  that 
fact  to  appear.  What  he  did,  he  did  because  he 
must:  he  used  no  election:  it  was  the  most  nat- 
ural thing  in  the  world,  and  grew  out  of  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  moment.  But  now,  everything 
he  did,  even  to  the  lifting  of  his  finger,  or  the  eat- 
ing of  bread,  looks  large,  all-related,  and  is  called 
an  institution. 

These  are  the  demonstrations  in  a few  particu- 
lars of  the  genius  of  nature  ; they  show  the  direc- 
tion of  the  stream.  But  the  stream  is  blood; 


138 


ESSA  V IV. 


every  drop  is  alive.  Truth  has  not  single  victo- 
ries ; all  things  are  its  organs,  not  only  dust  and 
stones,  but  errors  and  lies.  The  laws  of  disease, 
physicians  say,  are  as  beautiful  as  the  laws  of 
health.  Our  philosophy  is  affirmative,  and  readily 
accepts  the  testimony  of  negative  facts,  as  every 
shadow  points  to  the  sun.  By  a divine  necessity, 
every  fact  in  nature  is  constrained  to  offer  its  tes- 
timony. 

Human  character  does  evermore  publish  itself. 
It  will  not  be  concealed.  It  hates  darkness, — it 
rushes  into  light.  The  most  fugitive  deed  and 
word,  the  mere  air  of  doing  a thing,  the  intimated 
purpose,  expresses  character.  If  you  act,  you 
show  character , if  you  sit  still,  you  show  it ; if 
you  sleep,  you  show  it.  You  think  because  you 
have  spoken  nothing  when  others  spoke,  and  have 
given  no  opinion  on  the  times,  on  the  church,  on 
slavery,  on  the  college,  on  parties  and  persons, 
that  your  verdict  is  still  expected  with  curiosity  as 
a reserved  wisdom.  Far  otherwise  ; your  silence 
answers  very  loud.  You  have  no  oracle  to  utter, 
and  your  fellow-men  have  leai  ned  that  you  cannot 
help  them  ; for,  oracles  speak.  Doth  not  wisdom 
cry,  and  understanding  put  forth  her  voice  ? 

Dreadful  limits  are  set  in  nature  to  the  powers 
of  dissimulation.  Truth  tyrannizes  over  the  un- 
willing members  of  the  body.  Faces  never  lie,  it 
is  said.  No  man  need  be  deceived,  who  will  study 
the  changes  of  expression.  When  a man  speaks 
the  truth  in  the  spirit  of  truth,  his  eye  is  as  clear 
as  the  heavens.  When  he  has  base  ends,  and 


SPIRITUAL  LA  WS.  1 39 

Bpeaks  falsely,  the  eye  is  muddy  and  sometimes 
asquint. 

I have  heard  an  experienced  counsellor  say,  that 
he  feared  never  the  elfect  upon  a jury,  of  a lawyer 
who  does  not  believe  in  his  heart  that  his  client 
ought  to  have  a verdict.  If  he  does  not  believe 
it,  his  unbelief  will  appear  to  the  jury,  despite  all 
his  protestations,  and  will  become  their  unbelief. 
This  is  that  law  whereby  a work  of  art,  of  what- 
ever kind,  sets  us  in  the  same  state  of  mind 
wherein  the  artist  was,  wiien  he  made  it.  That 
which  we  do  not  believe,  we  cannot  adequately 
say,  though  we  may  repeat  the  words  never  so 
often.  It  was  this  conviction  which  Swedenborg 
expressed,  when  he  described  a group  of  persons 
in  the  spiritual  world  endeavoring  in  vain  to  ar- 
ticulate a proposition  which  they  did  not  believe : 
but  they  could  not,  though  they  twisted  and  folded 
their  lips  even  to  indignation. 

A man  passes  for  that  he  is  worth.  Very  idle 
is  all  curiosity  concerning  other  people’s  estimate 
of  us,  and  idle  is  all  fear  of  remaining  unknown. 
If  a man  know  that  he  can  do  anything, — that  he 
can  do  it  better  than  any  one  else,  —he  has  a 
pledge  of  the  acknowledgment  of  that  fact  by 
all  persons.  The  world  is  full  of  judgment  days, 
and  into  every  assembly  that  a man  enters,  in 
every  action  he  attempts,  he  is  gauged  and 
stamped.  In  every  troop  of  boys  that  whoop  and 
run  in  each  yard  and  square,  a new  comer  is  as 
well  and  accurately  weighed  in  the  balance,  in  the 
course  of  a few  days,  and  stamped  with  his  right 


140 


ESSA  V IV. 


number,  as  if  he  had  undergone  a formal  trial  of 
his  strength,  speed,  and  temper.  A stranger 
comes  from  a distant  school,  with  better  dress, 
with  trinkets  in  his  pockets,  with  airs,  and  pre- 
tension ; an  old  boy  sniffs  thereat,  and  says  to 
liimself,  ‘‘It’s  of  no  use;  we  shall  find  him  out 
to-morrow.”  “What  hath  he  done?”  is  the  divine 
question  which  searches  men,  and  transpierces 
every  false  reputation.  A fop  may  sit  in  any 
chair  of  the  world,  nor  be  distinguished  for  his 
hour  from  Homer  and  Washington;  but  there 
can  never  be  any  doubt  concerning  the  respect- 
ive ability  of  human  beings,  when  we  seek  the 
truth.  Pretension  may  sit  still,  but  cannot  act. 
Pretension  never  feigned  an  act  of  real  greatness. 
Pretension  never  wrote  an  Iliad,  nor  drove  back 
Xerxes,  nor  Christianized  the  world,  nor  abolished 
slavery. 

Always  as  much  virtue  as  there  is,  so  much  ap- 
pears ; as  much  goodness  as  there  is,  so  much 
reverence  it  commands.  All  the  devils  respect 
virtue.  The  high,  the  generous,  the  self-devoted 
sect  will  always  instruct  and  command  mankind. 
Never  a sincere  word  was  utterly  lost.  Never  a 
magnanimity  fell  to  the  ground.  Always  the 
heart  of  man  greets  and  accepts  it  unexpectedly. 
A man  passes  for  that  he  is  worth.  What  he  is, 
engraves  itself  on  his  face,  on  his  form,  on  his 
fortunes,  in  letters  of  light  which  all  men  may 
read  but  himself.  Concealment  avails  him  noth- 
ing; boasting,  nothing.  There  is  confession  in 
the  glances  of  our  eyes;  in  our  smiles ; in  saluta- 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


141 

tions ; and  the  grasp  of  hands.  His  sin  bedaubs 
him,  mars  all  his  good  impression.  Men  know 
not  why  they  do  not  trust  him  ; but  they  do  not 
trust  him.  His  vice  glasses  his  eye,  demeans  his 
cheek,  pinches  the  nose,  sets  the  mark  of  the  beast 
on  the  back  of  the  head,  and  writes  O fool ! fool ! 
on  the  forehead  of  a king. 

If  you  would  not  be  known  to  do  anything, 
never  do  it.  A man  may  play  the  fool  in  the 
drifts  of  a desert,  but  every  grain  of  sand  shall 
seem  to  see.  He  may  be  a solitary  eater,  but  he 
cannot  keep  his  foolish  counsel.  A broken  com- 
plexion, a swinish  look,  ungenerous  acts,  and  the 
want  of  due  knowledge, — all  blab.  Can  a cook, 
a ChifBnch,  an  lachimo  be  mistaken  for  Zeno  or 
Paul  ? Confucius  exclaimed,  How  can  a man 
be  concealed  ! How  can  a man  be  concealed ! ” 

On  the  other  hand,  the  hero  fears  not,  that  if 
he  withlxold  the  avowal  of  a just  and  biave  act, 
it  will  go  unwitnessed  and  unloved.  One  knows 
it, — himself, — and  is  pledged  by  it  to  sweetness  of 
peace,  and  to  nobleness  of  aim,  which  will  prove 
in  the  end  a better  proclamation  of  it  than  the 
relating  of  the  incident.  Virtue  is  the  adherence 
in  action  to  the  nature  of  things,  and  the  na- 
ture of  things  makes  it  prevalent.  It  consists  in 
a perpetual  substitution  of  being  for  seeming,  and 
with  sublime  propriety  God  is  described  as  saying, 
I AM. 

The  lesson  which  all  these  observations  convey, 
is.  Be  and  not  seem.  Let  us  acquiesce.  Let  us 
take  our  bloated  nothingness  out  of  the  path  of 


142 


ESS  A Y IV, 


the  divine  circuits.  Let  us  unlearn  our  wisdom 
of  the  w'orld.  Let  us  lie  low  in  the  Lord’s 
power,  and  learn  that  truth  alone  makes  rich  and 
great. 

If  you  visit  your  friend,  why  need  you  apolo- 
gize for  not  having  visited  him,  and  waste  his  time 
and  deface  your  own  act?  Visit  him  now.  Let 
him  feel  that  the  highest  love  has  come  to  see 
him,  ill  thee  its  lowest  organ.  Or  why  need  you 
torment  yourself  and  friend  by  secret  self-re- 
proaches that  you  have  not  assisted  him  or  com- 
plimented him  with  gifts  and  salutations  hereto- 
fore? Be  a gift  and  a benediction.  Shine  with 
real  light,  and  not  with  the  borrowed  reflection 
of  gifts.  Common  men  are  apologies  for  men ; 
they  bow  the  head,  they  excuse  themselves  with 
prolix  reasons,  they  accumulate  appearances,  be- 
cause the  substance  is  not. 

We  are  full  of  these  superstitions  of  sense,  the 
worship  of  magnitude.  God  loveth  not  size ; 
whale  and  minnow  are  of  like  dimension.  But 
we  call  the  poet  inactive,  because  he  is  not  a 
president,  a merchant,  or  a porter.  We  adore  an 
institution,  and  do  not  see  that  it  is  founded  on  a 
thought  which  we  have.  But  real  action  is  in 
silent  moments.  The  epochs  of  our  life  are  not  in 
the  visible  facts  of  our  choice  of  a calling,  our 
marriage,  our  acquisition  of  an  office,  and  the 
like,  but  in  a silent  thought  by  the  wayside  as  we 
walk ; in  a thought  which  revises  our  entire  man- 
ner of  life,  and  says,  ‘‘  Thus  hast  thou  done,  but  it 
were  better  thus.”  And  all  our  after  years,  like 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


143 


menials,  do  serve  and  wait  on  this,  and,  according 
to  their  ability,  do  execute  its  will.  This  revisal 
or  correction  is  a constant  force,  which,  as  a ten- 
dency, reaches  through  our  lifetime.  The  object 
of  the  man,  the  aim  of  these  moments  is  to  make 
daylight  shine  through  him,  to  suffer  the  law  to 
traverse  his  whole  being  without  obstruction,  so 
that,  on  what  point  soever  of  his  doing  your  eye 
falls,  it  shall  report  truly  of  his  character,  whether 
it  be  his  diet,  his  house,  his  religious  forms,  his 
society,  his  mirth,  his  vote,  his  opposition.  Now 
he  is  not  homogeneous,  but  heterogeneous,  and 
the  ray  does  not  traverse  ; there  are  no  thorough 
lights ; but  the  eye  of  the  beholder  is  puzzled, 
detecting  many  unlike  tendencies,  and  a life  not 
yet  at  one. 

Why  should  we  make  it  a point  with  our  false 
modesty  to  disparage  that  man  we  are,  and  that 
form  of  being  assigned  to  us?  A good  man  is 
contented.  I love  and  honor  Epaminondas,  but  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  Epaminondas.  I hold  it  more 
just  to  love  the  world  of  this  hour,  than  the 
world  of  his  hour.  Nor  can  you,  if  I am  true, 
excite  me  to  the  least  uneasiness  by  saying,  he 
acted,  and  thou  sittest  still.'’  I see  action  to  be 
good,  when  the  need  is,  and  sitting  still  to  be  also 
good.  Epaminondas,  if  he  was  the  man  I take 
him  for,  would  have  sat  still  with  joy  and  peace, 
if  his  lot  had  been  mine.  Heaven  is  large,  and 
affords  space  for  all  modes  of  love  and  fortitude. 
Why  should  we  be  busy-bodies  and  superservice- 
able  ? Action  and  inaction  are  alike  to  the  true. 


144 


ESSA  V IV. 


One  piece  of  the  tree  is  cut  for  a weathercock, 
and  one  for  the  sleeper  of  a bridge;  the  virtue  of 
the  wood  is  apparent  in  both. 

I desire  not  to  disgrace  the  soul.  The  fact  that 
I am  here,  certainl}^  shows  me  that  the  soul  had 
need  of  an  organ  here.  Shall  I not  assume  the 
post?  Shall  1 skulk  and  dodge  and  duck  with 
my  unseasonable  apologies  and  vain  modesty,  and 
imagine  my  being  here  impertinent?  less  perti- 
nent than  Epaminondas  or  Homer  being  there? 
and  that  the  soul  did  not  know  its  own  needs? 
Besides,  without  any  reasoning  on  the  matter,  I 
have  no  discontent.  The  good  soul  nourishes  me 
alway,  unlocks  new  magazines  of  power  and  en- 
joyment to  me  every  day.  I will  not  meanly  de- 
cline the  immensity  of  good,  because  I have 
heard  that  it  has  come  to  others  in  another  shape. 

Besides,  why  should  we  be  cowed  by  the  name 
of  Action?  ’Tis  a trick  of  the  senses, — no  more. 
We  know  that  the  ancestor  of  every  action  is  a 
thought.  The  poor  mind  does  not  seem  to  itself 
to  be  anything,  unless  it  have  an  outside  badge, 
— some  Gentoo  diet,  or  Quaker  coat,  or  Calvin- 
istic  prayer-meeting,  or  philanthropic  society,  or 
a great  donation,  or  a high  office,  or,  anyhow, 
some  wild  contrasting  action  to  testify  that  it  is 
somewhat.  The  rich  mind  lies  in  the  sun  and 
sleeps,  and  is  Nature.  To  think  is  to  act. 

Let  us,  if  we  must  have  great  actions,  make 
our  own  so.  All  action  is  of  an  infinite  elasticity, 
and  the  least  admits  of  being  inflated  with  the 
celestial  air  until  it  eclipses  the  sun  and  moon. 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


MS 

Let  us  seek  one  peace  by  fidelity.  Let  me  do  my 
duties.  Why  need  I go  gadding  into  the  scenes 
and  philosophy  of  Greek  and  Italian  history,  be- 
fore 1 have  washed  my  own  face,  or  justified  my- 
self to  my  own  benefactors?  How  dare  I read 
Washington’s  campaigns,  when  I have  not  an- 
swered the  letters  of  my  own  correspondents  ? Is 
not  that  a just  objection  to  much  of  our  reading? 
It  is  a pusillanimous  desertion  of  our  work  to 
gaze  after  our  neighbors.  It  is  peeping.  Byron 
says  of  Jack  Bunting, 

“He  knew  not  what  to  say,  and  so,  he  swore. 

I may  say  it  of  our  preposterous  use  of  books : 
He  knew  not  what  to  do,  and  so,  he  read,  I can 
think  of  nothing  to  fill  my  time  with,  and  so, 
without  any  constraint,  I find  the  Life  of  Branto 
It  is  a very  extravagant  compliment  to  pay  to 
Brant,  or  to  General  Schuyler,  or  to  General 
Washington.  My  time  should  be  as  good  as  their 
time ; my  world,  my  facts,  all  my  net  of  relations 
as  good  as  theirs,  or  either  of  theirs.  Rather  let 
me  do  my  work  so  well  that  other  idlers,  if  they 
choose,  may  compare  my  texture  with  the  texture 
of  these  and  find  it  identical  with  the  best. 

This  over-estimate  of  the  possibilities  of  Paul 
and  Pericles,  this  under-estimate  of  our  own, 
comes  from  a neglect  of  the  fact  of  an  identical 
nature.  Bonaparte  knew  but  one  Merit,  and  re- 
warded in  one  and  the  same  Avay  the  good  soldier, 
the  good  astronomer,  the  good  poet,  the  good 
player.  Thus  he  signified  his  sense  of  a great 
10 


146 


ESS  A Y IV. 


fact.  The  poet  uses  the  names  of  Caesar,  of 
Tamerlane,  of  Bonduca,  of  Belisarius ; the  painter 
uses  the  conventional  story  of  the  Virgin 
Mary,  of  Paul,  of  Peter.  He  does  not,  therefore, 
defer  to  the  nature  of  these  accidental  men,  of 
these  stock  heroes.  If  the  poet  write  a true 
drama,  then  he  is  Caesar,  and  not  the  player  of 
Caesar  ; then  the  self-same  strain  of  thought,  emo- 
tion  as  pure,  wit  as  subtle,  motions  as  swift, 
mounting,  extravagant,  and  a heart  as  great,  self- 
sufficing,  dauntless,  which  on  the  waves  of  its  love 
and  hope  can  uplift  all  that  is  reckoned  solid  and 
precious  in  the  world,  palaces,  gardens,  money, 
navies,  kingdoms, — marking  its  own  incomparable 
worth  by  the  slight  it  casts  on  these  gauds  of  men, 
— these  all  are  his  and  by  the  power  of  these  he 
rouses  the  nations.  But  the  great  names  cannot 
stead  him,  if  he  have  no  life  himself.  Let  a man 
believe  in  God,  and  not  in  names  and  places  and 
persons.  Let  the  great  soul  incarnated  in  some 
woman’s  form,  poor  and  sad  and  single,  in  some 
Dolly  or  Joan,  go  out  to  service,  and  sweep 
chambers  and  scour  floors,  and  its  effulgent  day- 
beams  cannot  be  muffled  or  hid,  but  to  sweep  and 
scour  will  instantly  appear  supreme  and  beautiful 
actions,  the  top  and  radiance  of  human  life,  and 
all  peoi)le  will  get  mops  and  brooms  ; until,  lo, 
suddenly  the  great  soul  has  enshrined  itself  in 
some  otlier  form,  and  done  some  other  deed,  and 
that  is  now  the  flower  and  head  of  all  living 
nature. 

We  are  the  photometers,  we  the  irritable  gold- 


SPIRITUAL  LAWS. 


147 


leaf  and  tin-foil  that  measure  the  accumulations  of 
the  subtle  element.  We  know  the  authentic 
effects  of  the  true  fire  through  every  one  of  its 
million  disguises. 


LOVE. 


LOVE. 


Eveky  soul  is  a celestial  Venus  to  every  other 
soul.  The  heart  has  its  sabbaths  and  jubilees,  in 
which  the  world  appears  as  a hymeneal  feast,  and 
all  natural  sounds  and  the  circle  of  the  seasons 
are  erotic  odes  and  dances.  Love  is  omnipresent 
in  nature  as  motive  and  reward.  Love  is  our 
highest  word,  and  the  synonym  of  God.  Every 
promise  of  the  soul  has  innumerable  fulfilments  ; 
each  of  its  joys  ripens  into  a new  want.  Nature, 
uncontainable,  flowing,  fore-looking,  in  the  first 
sentiment  of  kindness  anticipates  already  a be- 
nevolence which  shall  lose  all  particular  regards 
in  its  general  light.  The  introduction  to  this 
felicity  is  in  a private  and  tender  relation  of  one 
to  one,  which  is  the  enchantment  of  human  life  •, 
which,  like  a certain  divine  rage  and  enthusiasm, 
seizes  on  man  at  one  period,  and  works  a revolu- 
tion in  his  mind  and  body ; unites  him  to  his  race, 
pledges  him  to  the  domestic  and  civic  relations, 
carries  him  with  new  sympathy  into  nature,  en- 
hances the  power  of  the  senses,  opens  the  imagin- 
ation, adds  to  his  character  heroic  and  sacred 
attributes,  establishes  marriage,  and  gives  per- 
manence to  human  society. 


(151) 


152 


ESSAY  V. 


The  natural  association  of  the  sentiment  of  love 
with  the  heyday  of  the  blood,  seems  to  require 
that  in  order  to  portray  it  in  vivid  tints  which 
every  youth  and  maid  should  confess  to  be  true  to 
their  throbbing  experience,  one  must  not  be  too 
old.  The  delicious  fancies  of  youth  reject  the 
least  savor  of  a mature  philosophy,  as  chilling 
with  age  and  pedantry  their  purple  bloom.  And, 
therefore,  I know  I incur  the  imputation  of  un- 
necessary hardness  and  stoicism  from  those  who 
compose  the  Court  and  Parliament  of  Love.  But 
from  these  formidable  censors  I shall  appeal  to  my 
seniors.  For,  it  is  to  be  considered  that  this  pas- 
sion of  which  we  speak,  though  it  begin  with  the 
young,  yet  forsakes  not  the  old,  or  rather  suffers 
no  one  who  is  truly  its  servant  to  grow  old,  but 
makes  the  aged  participators  of  it,  not  less  than 
the  tender  maiden,  though  in  a different  and 
nobler  sort.  For,  it  is  a fire  that  kindling  its  first 
embers  in  the  narrow  nook  of  a private  bosom, 
caught  from  a wandering  spark  out  of  another 
private  heart,  glows  and  enlarges  until  it  warms 
and  beams  upon  multitudes  of  men  and  women, 
upon  the  universal  heart  of  all,  and  so  lights  up 
the  whole  world  and  all  nature  with  its  generous 
fiames.  It  matters  not,  therefore,  whether  we  at- 
tempt to  describe  the  passion  at  twenty,  at  thirty, 
or  at  eighty  years.  He  who  paints  it  at  the  first 
period,  will  lose  some  of  its  later,  he  who  paints 
it  at  the  last,  some  of  its  earlier  traits.  Only  it  is 
to  be  hoped  that  by  patience  and  the  muses’  aid, 
we  may  attain  to  that  inward  view  of  the  law, 


LOVE. 


IS3 


which  shall  describe  a truth  ever  young,  ever 
beautiful,  so  central  that  it  shall  commend  itself 
to  the  eye  at  whatever  angle  beholden. 

And  the  first  condition  is,  that  we  must  leave  a 
too  close  and  lingering  adherence  to  the  actual,  to 
facts,  and  study  the  sentiment  as  it  appeared  in 
nope  and  not  in  history.  For,  each  man  sees  his 
own  life  defaced  and  disfigured,  as  the  life  of  man 
is  not,  to  his  imagination.  Each  man  sees  over 
his  own  experience  a certain  slime  of  error,  whilst 
that  of  other  men  looks  fair  and  ideal.  Let  any 
man  go  back  to  those  delicious  relations  which 
make  the  beauty  of  his  life,  which  have  given 
him  sincerest  instruction  and  nourishment  he 
will  shrink  and  shrink.  Alas!  I know  not 
why,  but  infinite  compunctions  embitter  in 
mature  life  all  the  remembrances  of  budding 
sentiment,  and  cover  every  beloved  name.  Every 
thing  is  beautiful  seen  from  the  point  of  the  in- 
tellect, or  as  truth.  But  all  is  sour,  if  seen  as  ex- 
perience. Details  are  always  melancholy;  the 
plan  is  seemly  and  noble.  It  is  strange  how  pain- 
ful is  the  actual  world, — the  painful  kingdom  of 
time  and  place.  There  dwells  care  and  canker 
and  fear.  With  thought,  with  the  ideal,  is  im- 
mortal hilarity,  the  rose  of  joy.  Round  it  all  the 
muses  sing.  But  with  names  and  persons  and  the 
partial  interests  of  to-day  and  yesterday,  is  grief. 

The  strong  bent  of  nature  is  seen  in  the  pro- 
portion which  this  topic  of  personal  relations 
usurps  in  the  conversation  of  society.  What  do 
we  wish  to  know  of  any  worthy  person  so  much 


154 


ESSAY  V, 


as  how  he  has  sped  in  the  history  of  this  senti- 
ment ? What  books  in  the  circulating  library  circu- 
late? How  we  glow  over  these  novels  of  pas- 
sion, when  the  story  is  told  Avith  any  spark  of 
truth  and  nature ! And  what  fastens  attention, 
in  the  intercourse  of  life,  like  any  passage  betray- 
ing affection  between  two  parties  ? Perhaps  we 
never  saw  them  before,  and  never  shall  meet  them 
again.  But  we  see  them  exchange  a glance,  or 
betray  a deep  emotion,  and  we  are  no  longer 
strangers.  We  understand  them,  and  take  the 
warmest  interest  in  the  development  of  the  ro- 
mance. All  mankind  love  a lover.  The  earliest 
demonstrations  of  complacency  and  kindness  are 
nature’s  most  winning  pictures.  It  is  the  dawn 
of  civility  and  grace  in  the  coarse  and  rustic. 
The  rude  village  boy  teazes  the  girls  about  the 
school-house  door  ; — but  to-day  he  comes  running 
into  the  entry,  and  meets  one  fair  child  arranging 
her  satchel : he  holds  her  books  to  help  her,  and 
instantly  it  seems  to  him  as  if  she  removed  herself 
from  him  infinitely,  and  was  a sacred  precinct. 
Among  the  throng  of  girls  he  runs  rudely  enough, 
but  one  alone  distances  him : and  these  two  little 
neighbors  that  were  so  close  just  now,  have  learned 
to  respect  each  other’s  personality.  Or  who  can 
avert  his  eyes  from  the  engaging,  half-artful,  half- 
artless ways  of  school-girls  who  go  into  the 
country  shops  to  buy  a skein  of  silk  or  a sheet  of 
paper,  and  talk  half  an  hour  about  nothing,  with 
the  broad-faced,  good-natured  shop-boy.  In  the 
village,  they  are  on  a perfect  equality,  which  love 


LOVE, 


155 


delights  in,  and  without  any  coquetry  the  happy, 
affectionate  nature  of  woman  flows  out  in  this 
pretty  gossip.  The  girls  may  have  little  beauty, 
yet  plainly  do  they  establish  between  them  and 
the  good  boy  the  most  agreeable,  confiding  rela- 
tions, what  with  their  fun  and  their  earnest, 
about  Edgar,  and  Jonas,  and  Almira,  and  who 
was  invited  to  the  party,  and  who  danced  at  the 
dancing  school,  and  when  the  singing  school 
would  begin,  and  other  nothings  concerning  which 
the  parties  cooed.  By-and-by  that  boy  wants  a 
wife,  and  very  truly  and  heartily  will  he  know 
where  to  find  a sincere  and  sweet  mate,  without 
any  risk  such  as  Milton  deplores  as  incident  to 
scWars  and  great  men. 

I have  been  told  that  my  philosophy  is  un- 
social, and,  that  in  public  discourses,  my  reverence 
for  the  intellect  makes  me  unjustly  cold  to  the 
personal  relations.  But  now  I almost  shrink  at 
the  remembrance  of  such  disparaging  words.  For 
persons  are  love’s  world,  and  the  coldest  philoso- 
pher cannot  recount  the  debt  of  the  young  soul 
wandering  here  in  nature  to  the  power  of  love, 
without  being  tempted  to  unsay  as  treasonable  to 
nature,  aught  derogatory  to  the  social  instincts. 
For,  though  the  celestial  rapture  falling  out  of 
heaven  seizes  only  upon  those  of  tender  age,  and 
although  a beauty  overpowering  all  analysis  or 
comparison,  and  putting  us  quite  beside  ourselves, 
we  can  seldom  see  after  thirty  years,  yet  the 
remembrance  of  these  visions  outlasts  all  other 
remembrances,  and  is  a wreath  of  flowers  on  the  old- 


156 


ESSAY  V, 


est  brows.  But  here  is  a strange  fact;  it  may 
seem  to  many  men  in  revising  their  experience, 
that  they  have  no  fairer  page  in  their  life’s  book 
than  the  delicious  memory  of  some  passages 
wherein  affection  contrived  to  give  a Avitchcraft 
surpassing  the  deep  attraction  of  its  own  truth  to  a 
parcel  of  accidental  and  trivial  circumstances.  In 
looking  backward,  they  may  find  that  several  things 
which  were  not  the  charm,  have  more  reality  to 
this  groping  memory  than  the  charm  itself  which 
embalmed  them.  But  be  our  experience  in 
particulars  what  it  may,  no  man  ever  forgot 
the  visitations  of  that  power  to  his  heart  and 
brain,  which  created  all  things  new;  which 
was  the  dawn  in  him  of  music,  poetry  and  art ; 
which  made  the  face  of  nature  radiant  with  pur- 
ple light,  the  morning  and  the  night  varied  en- 
chantments ; when  a single  tone  of  one  voice 
could  make  the  heart  beat,  and  the  most  trivial 
circumstance  associated  with  one  form,  is  put  in 
the  amber  of  memory : when  we  became  all  eye 
when  one  was  present,  and  all  memory  when  one 
was  gone  ; when  the  youth  becomes  a watcher  of 
windows,  and  studious  of  a glove,  a veil,  a ribbon, 
or  the  wheels  of  a carriage  ; when  no  place  is  too 
solitary,  and  none  too  silent  for  him  who  has  richer 
company  and  sweeter  conversation  in  his  new 
thoughts,  than  any  old  friends,  though  best  and 
purest,  can  give  him  ; for,  the  figures,  the  motions, 
the  words  of  the  beloved  object  are  not  like  other 
images  written  in  water,  but,  as  Plutarch  said, 


LOVE,  IS7 

“ enamelled  in  fire,”  and  make  the  study  of  mid- 
night. 

‘‘  Thou  art  not  gone  being  gone,  wheree’er  thou  art, 
Thou  leav’st  in  him  thy  watchful  eyes,  in  him  thy  lov- 
ing heart.*’ 

In  the  noon  and  the  afternoon  of  life,  we  still 
throb  at  the  recollection  of  days  when  happiness 
was  not  happy  enough,  but  must  be  drugged  with 
the  relish  of  pain  and  fear ; for  he  touched  the 
secret  of  the  matter,  who  said  of  love, 

“ All  other  pleasures  are  not  worth  its  pains : ” 

and  when  the  day  was  not  long  enough,  but  the 
night  too  must  be  consumed  in  keen  recollec- 
tions ; when  the  head  boiled  all  night  on  the  pil- 
low with  the  generous  deed  it  resolved  on  ; when 
the  moonlight  was  a pleasing  fever,  and  the  stars 
were  letters,  and  the  flowers  ciphers,  and  the  air 
was  coined  into  song ; when  all  business  seemed 
an  impertinence,  and  all  the  men  and  women  run- 
ning to  and  fro  in  the  streets,  mere  pictures. 

The  passion  re-makes  the  world  for  the  youth. 
It  makes  all  things  alive  and  significant.  Nature 
grows  conscious.  Every  bird  on  the  boughs  of 
the  tree  sings  now  to  his  heart  and  soul.  Al- 
most the  notes  are  articulate.  The  clouds  have 
faces,  as  he  looks  on  them.  The  trees  of  the 
forest,  the  waving  grass  and  the  peeping  flowers 
have  grown  intelligent ; and  almost  he  fears  to 
trust  them  with  the  secret  which  they  seem  to 


158 


ESSAY  V, 


invite.  Yet  nature  soothes  and  sympathizes.  In 
the  green  solitude  he  finds  a dearer  home  than 
with  men. 

“ Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves, 

Places  which  pale  passion  loves, 

Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  safely  housed,  save  bats  and  owls, 

A midnight  bell,  a passing  groan, 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon.’' 

Behold  there  in  the  wood  the  fine  madman ! 
He  is  a palace  of  sweet  sounds  and  sights ; he 
dilates  ; he  is  twice  a man  ; he  walks  with  arms 
akimbo ; he  soliloquizes  ; he  accosts  the  grass  and 
the  trees ; he  feels  the  blood  of  the  violet,  the 
clover  and  the  lily  in  his  veins ; and  he  talks  with 
the  brook  that  wets  his  foot. 

The  causes  that  have  sharpened  his  percep- 
tions of  natural  beauty,  have  made  him  love  music 
and  verse.  It  is  a fact  often  observed,  that 
men  have  written  good  verses  under  the  inspira- 
tion of  passion,  who  cannot  write  well  under  any 
other  circumstances. 

The  like  force  has  the  passion  over  all  his  nature. 
It  expands  the  sentiment ; it  makes  the  clown  gen- 
tle, and  gives  the  coward  heart.  Into  the  most 
pitiful  and  abject  it  will  infuse  a heart  and  courage 
to  defy  the  world,  so  only  it  have  the  counten- 
ance of  the  beloved  object.  In  giving  him  to  an- 
other, it  still  more  gives  him  to  himself.  He  is  anew 
man,  with  new  perceptions,  new  and  keener  pur- 
poses, and  a religious  solemnity  of  character  and 


LOFE. 


159 


aims.  He  does  not  longer  appertain  to  his  family 
and  society.  He  is  somewhat.  He  is  a person. 
He  is  a soul. 

And  here  let  us  examine  a little  nearer  the  na- 
ture  of  that  influence  which  is  thus  potent  over 
the  human  youth.  Let  us  approach  and  admire 
Beauty,  whose  revelation  to  man  we  now  cele- 
brate,— beauty,  welcome  as  the  sun  wherever  it 
pleases  to  shine,  which  pleases  everybody  with  it 
and  with  themselves.  Wonderful  is  its  charm.  It 
seems  sufficient  to  itself.  The  lover  cannot  paint 
his  maiden  to  his  fancy  poor  and  solitary.  Like  a 
tree  in  flower,  so  much  soft,  budding,  informing 
loveliness  is  society  for  itself,  and  she  teaches  his 
eye  why  Beauty  was  ever  painted  with  Loves  and 
Graces  attending  her  steps.  Her  existence  makes 
the  world  rich.  Though  she  extrudes  all  other 
persons  from  his  attention  as  cheap  and  unworthy, 
yet  she  indemnifies  him  by  carrying  out  her  own 
being  into  somewhat  impersonal,  large,  mundane, 
so  that  the  maiden  stands  to  him  for  a representa- 
tive of  all  select  things  and  virtues.  For  that 
reason  the  lover  sees  never  personal  resemblances 
in  his  mistress  to  her  kindred  or  to  others.  His 
friends  find  in  her  a likeness  to  her  mother,  or  her 
sisters,  or  to  persons  not  of  her  blood.  The  lover 
sees  no  resemblance  except  to  summer  evenings 
and  diamond  mornings,  to  rainbows  and  the  song 
of  birds. 

Beauty  is  ever  that  divine  thing  the  ancients 
esteemed  it.  It  is,  they  said,  the  flowering  of  vir- 
tue. Who  can  analyze  the  nameless  charm  which 


i6o 


ESSAY  V. 


glances  from  one  and  another  face  and  form?  We 
are  touched  with  emotions  of  tenderness  and 
complacency,  but  we  cannot  find  whereat  this 
dainty  emotion,  this  wandering  gleam  point.  It 
is  destroyed  for  the  imagination  by  any  attempt 
to  refer  it  to  organization.  Nor  does  it  point  to 
any  relations  of  friendship  or  love  that  society 
knows  and  has,  but,  as  it  seems  to  me,  to  a quite 
other  and  unattainable  sphere,  to  relations  of 
transcendent  delicacy  and  sweetness,  a true  faerie 
land;  to  what  roses  and  violets  hint  and  foreshow. 
We  cannot  get  at  beauty.  Its  nature  is  like  opal- 
ine doves’-neck  lustres,  hovering  and  evanescent. 
Herein  it  resembles  the  most  excellent  things, 
which  all  have  this  rainbow  character,  defying  all 
attempts  at  appropriation  and  use.  What  else  did 
Jean  Paul  Richter  signify,  when  he  said  to  music, 
^^Away!  away!  thou  speakest  to  me  of  things 
which  in  all  my  endless  life  I have  found  not,  and 
shall  not  find.”  The  same  fact  may  be  observed 
in  every  work  of  the  plastic  arts.  The  statue  is 
then  beautiful,  when  it  begins  to  be  incompre- 
hensible, when  it  is  passing  out  of  criticism,  and 
can  no  longer  be  defined  by  compass  and 
measuring  wand,  but  demands  an  active  imagina- 
tion to  go  with  it,  and  to  say  what  it  is  in  the  act 
of  doing.  The  god  or  hero  of  the  sculptor  is  al- 
ways represented  in  a transition  from  that  which 
is  representable  to  the  senses,  to  that  which  is  not. 
Then  first  it  ceases  to  be  a stone.  The  same  re- 
mark holds  of  painting.  And  of  poetry,  the  suc- 
cess IS  not  attained  when  it  lulls  and  satisfies,  but 


LOVE. 


i6i 


when  it  astonishes  and  fires  us  with  new  endeav- 
ors  after  the  unattainable.  Concerning  it,  Landor 
inquires  whether  it  is  not  to  be  referred  to  some 
purer  state  of  sensation  and  existence.” 

So  must  it  be  with  personal  beauty,  which  love 
worships.  Then  first  is  it  charming  and  itself, 
when  it  dissatisfies  us  with  any  end  ; when  it  be- 
comes a story  without  an  end;  when  it  suggests 
gleams  and  visions,  and  not  earthly  satisfactions; 
when  it  seems 

“ too  bright  and  good, 

For  human  nature’s  daily  food ; ” 

when  it  makes  the  beholder  feel  his  unworthiness  ; 
when  he  cannot  feel  his  right  to  it,  though  he  were 
Caesar ; he  cannot  feel  more  right  to  it,  than  to 
the  firmament  and  the  splendors  of  a sunset. 

Hence  arose  the  saying,  ‘‘If  I love  you,  what 
is  that  to  you  ? ” We  say  so,  because  we  feel  that 
what  we  love,  is  not  in  your  will,  but  above  it. 
It  is  the  radiance  of  you  and  not  you.  It  is  that 
which  you  know  not  in  yourself,  and  can  never 
know. 

This  agrees  w^ell  with  that  high  philosophy  of 
Beauty  which  the  ancient  writers  delighted  in ; 
for  they  said,  that  the  soul  of  man,  embodied  here 
on  earth,  went  roaming  up  and  down  in  quest 
of  that  other  world  of  its  own,  out  of  which 
it  came  into  this,  but  was  soon  stupefied  by 
the  light  of  the  natural  sun,  and  unable  to  see  any 
other  objects  than  those  of  this  world,  which  are 
but  shadows  of  real  things.  Therefore,  the  Deity 
11 


i62 


ESSAY  V. 


sends  the  glory  of  youth  before  the  soul,  that  it 
may  avail  itself  of  beautiful  bodies  as  aids  to  its 
recollection  of  the  celestial  good  and  fair;  and  the 
man  beholding  such  a person  in  the  female  sex, 
runs  to  her,  and  finds  the  highest  joy  in  contem- 
plating the  form,  movement,  and  intelligence  of 
this  person,  because  it  suggests  to  him  the  pres- 
sence  of  that  which  indeed  is  within  the  beauty, 
and  the  cause  of  the  beauty. 

If,  however,  from  too  much  conversing  with 
material  objects,  the . soul  was  gross,  and  mis- 
placed its  satisfaction  in  the  body,  it  reaped  noth- 
ing but  sorrow  ; body  being  unable  to  fulfil  the 
promise  which  beauty  holds  out ; but  if,  accepting 
the  hint  of  these  visions  and  suggestions  which 
beauty  makes  to  his  mind,  the  soul  passes  through 
the  body,  and  falls  to  admire^  strokes  of  character, 
and  the  lovers  contemplate  one  another  in  their 
discourses  and  their  actions,  then,  they  pass  to  the 
true  palace  of  Beauty,  more  and  more  inflame  their 
love  of  it,  and  by  this  love  extinguishing  the  base 
affection,  as  the*  sun  puts  out  the  fire  by  shining 
on  the  hearth,  they  become  pure  and  hallowed. 
By  conversation  with  that  which  is  in  itself  excel- 
lent, magnanimous,  lowly  and  just,  the  lover  comes 
to  a warmer  love  of  these  nobilities,  and  a quicker 
apprehension  of  them.  Then,  he  passes  from  loving 
tliem  in  one,  to  loving  them  in  all,  and  so  is  the 
one  beautiful  soul  only  the  door  through  which  he 
enters  to  the  society  of  all  true  and  pure  souls. 
In  the  particular  society  of  his  mate,  he  attains  a 
clearer  sight  of  any  spot,  any  taint,  which  her 


LOVE. 


163 


beauty  has  contracted  from  this  world,  and  is  able 
to  point  it  out,  and  this  with  mutual  joy  that  they  . 
are  now  able  without  offence  to  indicate  blemishes 
and  hindrances  in  each  other,  and  give  to  each  all 
help  and’  comfort  in  curing  the  same.  And,  be- 
holding in  many  souls  the  traits  of  the  divine 
beauty,  and  separating  in  each  soul  that  which  is 
divine  from  the  taint  which  they  have  contracted  in 
the  world,  the  lover  ascends  ever  to  the  highest 
beauty,  to  the  love  and  knowledge  of  the  Divinity, 
by  steps  on  this  ladder  of  created  souls. 

Somewhat  like  this  have  the  truly  wise  told  us  of 
love  in  all  ages.  The  doctrine  is  not  old,  nor  is  it 
new.  If  Plato,  Plutarch  and  Apuleius  taught  it, 
so  have  Petrarch,  Angelo,  and  Milton.  It  awaits 
a truer  unfolding  in  opposition  and  rebuke  to  that 
subterranean  prudence  which  presides  at  mar- 
riages with  words  that  take  hold  of  the  upper 
world,  whilst  one  eye  is  eternally  boring  down  into 
the  cellar,  so  that  its  gravest  discourse  has  ever  a 
slight  savor  of  hams  and  powdering-tubs.  Worst, 
when  the  snout  of  this  sensualism  intrudes  into 
the  education  of  young  women,  and  withers  the 
hope  and  affection  of  human  nature,  hy  teaching 
that  marriage  signifies  nothing  but  a housewife’s 
thrift,  and  that  woman’s  life  has  no  other  aim. 

But  this  dream  of  love,  though  beautiful,  is  only 
one  scene  in  our  play.  In  the  procession  of  the 
soul  from  within  outward,  it  enlarges  its  circles 
ever,  like  the  pebble  thrown  into  the  pond,  or  the 
light  proceeding  from  an  orb.  The  rays  of  the 
soul  alight  first  on  things  nearest,  on  every  utensil 


164 


ESSAY  V. 


and  toy,  on  nurses  and  domestics,  on  the  house 
and  yard  and  passengers,  on  the  circle  of  house- 
hold acquaintance,  on  politics,  and  geography,  and 
history.  But  by  the  necessity  of  our  constitution, 
things  are  ever  grouping  themselves  according  to 
higher  or  more  interior  laws.  Neighborhood,  size, 
numbers,  habits,  persons,  lose  by  degrees  their 
power  over  us.  Cause  and  effect,  real  affinities, 
the  longing  for  harmony  between  the  soul  and 
the  circumstance,  the  high  progressive  idealizing 
instinct,  these  predominate  later,  and  ever  the 
step  backward  from  the  higher  to  the  lower  rela- 
tions is  impossible.  Thus  even  love,  which  is  the 
deification  of  persons,  must  become  more  imper- 
sonal every  day.  Of  this  at  first  it  gives  no  hint. 
Little  think  the  youth  and  maiden  who  are  glanc- 
ing at  each  other  across  crowded  rooms,  with  eyes 
so  full  of  mutual  intelligence, — of  the  precious 
fruit  long  hereafter  to  proceed  from  this  new,  quite 
external  stimulus.  The  work  of  vegetation  be- 
gins first  in  the  irritability  of  the  bark  and  leaf- 
buds.  From  exchanging  glances,  they  advance  to 
acts  of  courtesy,  of  gallantry,  then  to  fiery  pas- 
sion, to  plighting  troth  and  marriage.  Passion  be- 
holds its  object  as  a perfect  unit.  The  soul  is 
wholly  embodied,  and  the  body  is  wholly  en- 
souled. 

**  Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought, 
That  one  might  almost  say  her  body  thought.” 

Romeo,  if  dead,  should  be  cut  up  into  little  stars 


LOVE, 


165 


to  make  the  heavens  fine.  Life,  with  this  pair,  has 
no  other  aim,  asks  no  more  than  Juliet, — than 
Romeo.  Night,  day,  studies,  talents,  kingdoms, 
religion,  are  all  contained  in  this  form  full  of  soul, 
in  this  soul  which  is  all  form.  The  lovers  delight 
in  endearments,  in  avowals  of  love,  in  comparisons 
of  their  regards.  When  alone,  they  solace  them- 
selves with  the  remembered  image  of  the  other. 
Does  that  other  see  the  same  star ; the  same  melt- 
ing cloud,  read  the  same  book,  feel  the  same  emo- 
tion that  now  delight  me  ? They  try  and  weigh 
their  affection,  and  adding  up  all  costly  advan- 
tages, friends,  opportunities,  properties,  exult  in 
discovering  that  willingly,  joyfully,  they  would 
give  all  as  a ransom  for  the  beautiful,  the  be- 
loved head,  not  one  hair  of  which  shall  be 
harmed.  But  the  lot  of  humanity  is  on  these 
children.  Danger,  sorrow,  and  pain  arrive  to 
them,  as  to  all.  Love  prays.  It  makes  covenants 
with  Eternal  Power,  in  behalf  of  this  dear  mate. 
The  union  which  is  thus  effected,  and  which  adds 
a new  value  to  every  atom  in  nature,  for  it  trans- 
mutes every  thread  throughout  the  whole  web  of 
relation  into  a golden  ray,  and  bathes  the  soul  in 
a new  and  sweeter  element,  is  yet  a temporary 
state.  Not  always  can  flowers,  pearls,  poetry,  pro- 
testations, nor  even  home  in  another  heart,  con- 
tent the  awful  soul  that  dwells  in  clay.  It 
arouses  itself  at  last  from  these  endearments,  as 
toys,  and  puts  on  the  harness,  and  aspires  to  vast 
and  universal  aims.  The  soul  which  is  in  the  soul  of 
each,  craving  for  a perfect  beatitude,  detects  incon- 


V 


ESSAV  V. 


1 66 

gruities,  defects,  and  disproportion  in  the  behavior 
of  the  other.  Hence  arises  surprise,  expostula- 
tion, and  pain.  Yet  that  which  drew  them  to 
each  other  was  signs  of  loveliness,  signs  of  virtue  ; 
and  these  virtues  are  there,  however  eclipsed.  They 
appear  and  reappear,  and  continue  to  attract ; but 
the  regard  changes,  quits  the  sign,  and  attaches  to 
the  substance.  This  repairs  the  wounded  affec- 
tion. Meantime,  as  life  wears  on,  it  proves  a 
game  of  permutation  and  combination  of  all  pos- 
sible positions  of  the  parties,  to  extort  all  the  re- 
sources of  each,  and  acquaint  each  with  the  whole 
strength  and  weakness  of  the  other.  For  it  is  the 
nature  and  end  of  this  relation,  that  they  should 
represent  the  human  race  to  each  other.  All  that 
is  in  the  world  which  is  or  ought  to  be  known,  is 
cunningly  wrought  into  the  texture  of  man,  of 
woman. 

**  The  person  love  does  to  us  fit, 

Like  manna,  has  the  taste  of  all  in  it.’* 

The  world  rolls;  the  circumstances  vary  every 
hour.  All  the  angels  that  inhabit  this  temple  of 
the  body  appear  at  the  windows,  and  all  the 
gnomes  and  vices  also.  By  all  the  virtues,  they 
are  united.  If  there  be  virtue,  all  the  vices  are 
known  as  such ; they  confess  and  flee.  Their 
once  flaming  regard  is  sobered  by  time  in  either 
breast,  and  losing  in  violence  what  it  gains  in  ex- 
tent, it  becomes  a thorough  good  understanding. 
They  resign  each  other,  without  complaint,  to  the 


LOVJi, 


167 


good  ojffices  which  man  and  woman  are  severally 
appointed  to  discharge  in  time,  and  exchange  the 
passion  which  once  could  not  lose  sight  of  its  ob- 
ject, for  a cheerful,  disengaged  furtherance, 
whether  present  or  absent,  of  each  other’s  designs. 
At  last  they  discover  that  all  which  at  first  drew 
them  together, — those  once  sacred  features,  that 
magical  play  of  cliarms, — was  deciduous,  had  a 
prospective  end,  like  the  scaffolding  by  which  the 
house  was  built  ; and  the  purification  of  the  intel- 
lect and  the  heart,  from  j^ear  to  year,  is  the  real 
marriage,  foreseen  and  prepared  from  the  first,  and 
wholly  above  their  consciousness.  Looking  at 
tliese  aims  with  which  two  persons,  a man  and  a 
woman,  so  variously  and  correlatively  gifted,  are 
shut  up  in  one  house  to  spend  in  the  nuptial 
society  forty  or  fifty  years,  I do  not  wonder  at  the 
emphasis  with  which  the  heart  prophesies  this 
crisis  from  early  infancy,  at  the  profuse  beauty 
with  which  the  instincts  deck  the  nuptial  bower, 
and  nature  and  intellect  and  art  emulate  each 
other  in  the  gifts  and  the  melody  they  bring  to 
the  epithalamium. 

Thus  are  we  put  in  training  for  a love  which 
knows  not  sex,  nor  person,  nor  partiality,  but 
which  seeketh  virtue  and  wisdom  everywhere,  to 
the  end  of  increasing  virtue  and  wisdom.  We  are 
by  nature  observers,  and  thereby  learners.  That  is 
our  permanent  state.  But  we  are  often  made  to 
feel  that  our  affections  are  but  tents  of  a night. 
Though  slowly  and  with  pain,  the  objects  of  the 
affections  change,  as  the  objects  of  thought  do. 


i68 


ESSAY  V. 


There  are  moments  when  the  affections  rule  and 
absorb  the  man,  and  make  his  happiness  dependent 
on  a person  or  persons.  But  in  health  the  mind 
is  presently  seen  again, — its  overarching  vault, 
bright  with  galaxies  of  immutable  lights,  and  the 
warm  loves  and  fears  that  swept  over  us  as  clouds, 
must  lose  their  finite  character,  and  blend  with 
God,  to  attain  their  own  perfection.  But  we  need 
not  fear  that  we  can  lose  anything  by  the  progress 
of  the  soul.  The  soul  may  be  trusted  to  the  end. 
That  which  is  so  beautiful  and  attractive  as  these 
relations,  must  be  succeeded  and  supplanted  only 
by  what  is  more  beautiful,  and  so  on  forever. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


We  have  a great  deal  more  kindness  than  is 
ever  spoken.  Maugre  all  the  selfishness  that  chills 
like  east  winds  the  world,  the  whole  human  family 
is  bathed  with  an  element  of  love  like  a fine 
ether.  How  many  persons  we  meet  in  houses, 
whom  we  scarcely  speak  to,  whom  yet  we  honor, 
and  who  honor  us  ! How  many  we  see  in  the 
street,  or  sit  with  in  church,  whom,  though 
silently,  we  warmly  rejoice  to  be  with  ! Read  the 
language  of  these  wandering  eyebeams.  The 
heart  knoweth. 

The  effect  of  the  indulgence  of  this  human  af- 
fection is  a certain  cordial  exhilaration.  In 
poetry,  and  in  common  speech,  the  emotions  of 
benevolence  and  complacency  which  are  felt  to- 
wards others,  are  likened  to  the  material  effects  of 
fire ; so  swift,  or  much  more  swift,  more  active, 
more  cheering  are  these  fine  inward  irradiations. 
From  the  highest  degree  of  passionate  love,  to  the 
lowest  degree  of  good  will,  they  make  the  sweet- 
ness of  life. 

Our  intellectual  and  active  powers  increase  with 

(171) 


1/2 


ESSAY  VI. 


our  affection.  The  scholar  sits  down  to  write, 
and  all  his  years  of  meditation  do  not  furnish  him 
with  one  good  thought  or  happy  expression  ; but 
it  is  necessary  to  write  a letter  to  a friend, — and, 
forthwith,  troops  of  gentle  thoughts  invest  them- 
selves, on  every  hand,  with  chosen  words.  See  in 
any  house  where  virtue  and  self-respect  abide,  the 
palpitation  which  the  approach  of  a stranger 
causes.  A commended  stranger  is  expected  and 
announced,  and  an  uneasiness  betwixt  pleasure  and 
pain  invades  all  the  hearts  of  a household.  His 
arrival  almost  brings  fear  to  the  good  hearts  that 
would  welcome  him.  The  house  is  dusted,  all 
things  fly  into  their  places,  the  old  coat  is  ex- 
changed for  the  new,  and  they  must  get  up  a din- 
ner if  they  can.  Of  a commended  stranger,  only 
the  good  report  is  told  by  others,  only  the  good 
and  new  is  heard  by  us.  He  stands  to  us  for 
humanity.  He  is  what  we  wish.  Having  imag- 
ined and  invested  him,  we  ask  how  we  should 
stand  related  in  conversation  and  action  with  such 
a man,  and  are  uneasy  with  fear.  The  same  idea 
exalts  conversation  with  him.  We  talk  better 
than  we  are  wont.  We  have  the  nimblest  fancy, 
a richer  memory,  and  our  dumb  devil  has  taken 
leave  for  the  time.  For  long  hours  we  can  con- 
tinue a series  of  sincere,  graceful,  rich  communi- 
cations, drawn  from  the  oldest,  secretest  experi- 
ence, so  that  they  who  sit  by,  of  our  own  kinsfolk 
and  acquaintance,  shall  feel  a lively  surprise  at 
our  unusual  powers.  But  as  soon  as  the  stranger 
begins  to  intrude  his  partialities,  his  definitions, 


FRIENDSHIP, 


173 


his  defects,  into  the  conversation,  it  is  all  over.  He 
has  heard  the  first,  the  last  and  best,  he  will  ever 
hear  from  us.  He  is  no  stranger  now.  Vulgarity, 
ignorance,  misapprehension,  are  old  acquaint- 
ances. Now,  when  he  comes,  he  may  get  the 
order,  the  dress,  and  the  dinner, — but  the  throb- 
bing of  the  heart,  and  the  communications  of  the 
soul,  no  more. 

Pleasant  are  these  jets  of  affection  which  re- 
lume a young  world  for  me  again.  Delicious  is  a 
just  and  firm  encounter  of  two,  in  a thought,  in  a 
feeling.  How  beautiful,  on  their  approach  to  this 
beating  heart,  the  steps  and  forms  of  the  gifted 
and  the  true  ! The  moment  we  indulge  our  af- 
fections, the  earth  is  metamorphosed : there  is  no 
winter,  and  no  night ; all  tragedies,  all  ennuis 
vanish ; — all  duties  even  ; nothing  fills  the  pro- 
ceeding eternity  but  the  forms  all  radiant  of  be- 
loved persons.  Let  the  soul  be  assured  that  some- 
where in  the  universe  it  should  rejoin  its  friend, 
and  it  would  be  content  and  cheerful  alone  for  a 
thousand  years. 

I awoke  this  morning  with  devout  thanksgiving 
for  my  friends,  the  old  and  the  new.  Shall  I not 
call  God,  the  Beautiful,  who  daily  showeth  him- 
self so  to  me  in  his  gifts  ? I chide  society,  I em- 
brace solitude,  and  yet  I am  not  so  ungrateful  as 
not  to  see  the  wise,  the  lovely,  and  the  noble- 
minded,  as  from  time  to  time  they  pass  my  gate. 
Who  hears  me,  who  understands  me,  becomes 
mine, — a possession  for  all  time.  Nor  is  nature  so 
poor,  but  she  gives  me  this  joy  several  times,  and 


174 


ESSAY  VI, 


thus  we  weave  social  threads  of  our  own,  a new 
web  of  relations ; and,  as  many  thoughts  in  suc- 
cession substantiate  themselves,  we  shall  by-and-by 
stand  in  a new  world  of  our  own  creation,  and  no 
longer  strangers  and  pilgrims  in  a traditionary 
globe.  My  friends  have  come  to  me  unsought. 
The  great  God  gave  them  to  me.  By  oldest  right, 
by  the  divine  affinity  of  virtue  with  itself,  I find 
them,  or  rather,  not  I,  but  the  Deity  in  me  and  in 
them,  both  deride  and  cancel  the  thick  walls  of 
individual  character,  relation,  age,  sex  and  circum- 
stance, at  which  he  usually  connives,  and  now 
makes  many  one.  High  thanks  I owe  you,  excel- 
lent lovers,  who  carry  out  the  world  for  me  to  new 
and  noble  depths,  and  enlarge  the  meaning  of  all 
my  thoughts.  These  are  not  stark  and  stiffened 
persons,  but  the  new-born  poetry  of  God, — poetry 
without  stop, — hymn,  ode,  and  epic,  poetry  still 
flowing,  and  not  yet  caked  in  dead  books  with  an- 
notation and  grammar,  but  Apollo  and  the  Muses 
chanting  still.  Will  these  too  separate  themselves 
from  me  again,  or  some  of  them  ? I know  not, 
but  I fear  it  not ; for  my  relation  to  them  is  so 
pure,  that  we  hold  by  simple  affinity,  and  the 
Genius  of  my  life  being  thus  social,  the  same 
affinity  will  exert  its  energy  on  whomsoever  is  as 
noble  as  these  men  and  women,  wherever  I may  be. 

I confess  to  an  extreme  tenderness  of  nature  on 
this  point.  It  is  almost  dangerous  to  me  to 
crush  the  sweet  poison  of  misused  wine  ” of  the 
affections.  A new  person  is  to  me  always  a great 
event,  and  hinders  me  from  sleep.  I have  had 


FRIENDSHIP, 


175 


such  fine  fancies  lately  about  two  or  three  per- 
sons, as  have  given  me  delicious  hours  ; but  the 
joy  ends  in  the  day  : it  yields  no  fruit.  Thought 
is  not  born  of  it ; my  action  is  very  little  modified. 
I must  feel  pride  in  my  friend’s  accom))lish- 
ments  as  if  they  were  mine, — wild,  delicate,  throb- 
bing property  in  his  virtues.  I feel  as  warmly 
when  he  is  praised,  as  the  lover  when  he  liears  ap- 
plause of  his  engaged  maiden.  We  overestimate 
the  conscience  of  our  friend.  His  goodness  seems 
better  than  our  goodness,  his  nature  finer,  his 
temptations  less.  Everything  that  is  his,  his 
name,  his  form,  his  dress,  books,  and  instruments, 
fancy  enhances.  Our  own  thought  sounds  new 
and  larger  from  his  mouth. 

Yet  the  systole  and  diastole  of  the  heart  are  not 
without  their  analogy  in  the  ebb  and  fiow  of  love. 
Friendship,  like  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  is  too 
good  to  be  believed.  The  lover,  beholding  his 
maiden,  half  knows  that  she  is  not  verily  that 
which  he  worships ; and  in  the  golden  hour  of 
friendship,  we  are  surprised  with  shades  of  suspi- 
cion and  unbelief.  We  doubt  that  we  bestow  on 
our  hero  the  virtues  in  which  he  shines,  and  after- 
wards worship  the  form  to  which  we  have  ascribed 
this  divine  inhabitation.  In  strictness,  the  soul 
does  not  respect  men  as  it  respects  itself.  In  strict 
science,  all  persons  underlie  the  same  condition  of 
an  infinite  remoteness.  Shall  we  fear  to  cool  our 
love  by  facing  the  fact,  by  mining  for  the  met- 
aphysical foundation  of  this  Elysian  temple  ? 
Shall  I not  be  as  real  as  the  things  I see  ? If  I 


176 


ESSAY  VI. 


am,  I shall  not  fear  to  know  them  for  what  they 
are.  Their  essence  is  not  less  beautiful  than  their 
appearance,  though  it  needs  finer  organs  for  its 
apprehension.  The  root  of  the  plant  is  not  un- 
sightly to  science,  though  for  chaplets  and 
festoons  we  cut  the  stem  short.  And  I must 
hazard  the  production  of  the  bald  fact  amidst 
these  pleasing  reveries,  though  it  should  prove  an 
Egyptian  skull  at  our  banquet.  A man  who 
stands  united  with  his  thought,  conceives  magnifi- 
cently of  himself.  He  is  conscious  of  a universal 
success,  even  though  bought  by  uniform  particu- 
lar failures.  No  advantages,  no  powers,  no  gold 
or  force  can  be  an}^  match  for  him.  I cannot 
choose  but  rely  on  my  own  poverty,  more  than  on 
your  wealth.  I cannot  make  your  consciousness 
tantamount  to  mine.  Only  the  star  dazzles  ; the 
planet  has  a faint,  moon-like  ray.  I hear  what 
you  say  of  the  admirable  parts  and  tried  temper 
of  the  party  you  praise,  but  I see  well  that  for  all 
his  purple  cloaks  I shall  not  like  him,  unless  he  is 
at  last  a poor  Greek  like  me.  I cannot  deny  it,  O 
friend,  that  the  vast  shadow  of  the  Phenomenal 
includes  thee,  also,  in  its  pied  and  painted  immen- 
sity,— thee,  also,  compared  with  whom  all  else  is 
shadow.  Thou  art  not  Being,  as  Truth  is,  as 
Justice  is, — thou  art  not  my  soul,  but  a picture 
and  effigy  of  that.  Thou  hast  come  to  me  lately, 
and  already  thou  art  seizing  thy  hat  and  cloak. 
Is  it  not  that  the  soul  puts  forth  friends,  as  the 
tree  puts  forth  leaves,  and  presently,  by  the  germ- 
ination of  new  buds,  extrudes  the  old  leaf?  The 


FRIENDSHIP. 


177 


law  of  nature  is  alternation  forevermore.  Each 
electrical  state  superinduces  the  opposite.  The 
soul  environs  itself  with  friends,  that  it  may  enter 
into  a grander  self-acquaintance  or  solitude;  and 
it  goes  alone,  for  a season,  that  it  may  exalt  its 
conversation  or  society.  This  method  betrays 
itself  along  the  whole  history  of  our  personal  re- 
lations. Ever  the  instinct  of  affection  revives  the 
hope  of  union  with  our  mates,  and  ever  the  re- 
turning sense  of  insulation  recalls  us  from  the 
chase.  Thus  every  man  passes  his  life  in  the 
search  after  friendship,  and  if  he  should  record  his 
true  sentiment,  he  might  write  a letter  like  this,  to 
each  new  candidate  for  his  love. 

Dear  Friend: 

If  I was  sure  of  thee,  sure  of 
thy  capacity,  sure  to  match  my  mood  with  thine,  I 
should  never  think  again  of  trifles,  in  relation  to  thy 
comings  and  goings.  I am  not  very  wise:  my  moods 
are  quite  attainable : and  I respect  thy  genius : it  is  to 
me  as  yet  unfathomed ; yet  dare  I not  presume  in  thee 
a perfect  intelligence  of  me,  and  so  thou  art  to  me  a 
delicious  torment.  Thine  ever,  or  never. 

Yet  these  uneasy  pleasures  and  fine  pains  are 
for  curiosity,  and  not  for  life.  They  are  not  to  be 
indulged.  This  is  to  weave  cobweb,  and  not 
cloth.  Our  friendships  hurry  to  short  and  poor 
conclusions,  because  we  have  made  them  a texture 
of  wine  and  dreams,  instead  of  the  tough  fibre  of 
the  human  heart.  The  laws  of  friendship  are 
great,  austere,  and  eternal,  of  one  web  with  the 
laws  of  nature  and  of  morals.  But  we  have  aimed 
at  a swift  and  petty  benefit,  to  suck  a sudden 
12 


178 


ESSAY  VI. 


sweetness.  We  snatch  at  the  slowest  fruit  in  the 
whole  garden  of  God,  which  many  summers  and 
many  winters  must  ripen.  We  seek  our  friend 
not  sacredly,  but  with  an  adulterate  passion  which 
w^ould  appropriate  him  to  ourselves.  In  vain. 
We  are  armed  all  over  with  subtle  antagonisms, 
which,  as  soon  as  we  meet,  begin  to  play,  and 
translate  all  poetry  into  stale  prose.  Almost  al] 
people  descend  to  meet.  All  association  must  be 
a compromise,  and,  what  is  worst,  the  very  flower 
a.nd  aroma  of  the  flower  of  each  of  the  beautiful 
natures  disappears  as  they  approach  each  other. 
What  a perpetual  disappointment  is  actual  society, 
even  of  the  virtuous  and  gifted  ! After  inter- 
views have  been  compassed  with  long  foresight, 
we  must  be  tormented  presently  by  baffled  blows, 
by  sudden,  unseasonable  apathies,  by  epilepsies  of 
wit  and  of  animal  spirits,  in  the  hey-day  of  friend- 
ship and  thought.  Our  faculties  do  not  play  us 
true,  and  both  parties  are  relieved  by  solitude. 

I ought  to  be  equal  to  every  relation.  It  makes 
no  difference  how  many  friends  I have,  and  what 
eoiitent  I can  find  in  conversing  with  each,  if 
there  be  one  to  whom  I am  not  equal.  If  I have 
shrunk  unequal  from  one  contest,  instantly  the 
joy  I find  in  all  the  rest  becomes  mean  and  cow- 
ardly. I should  hate  myself,  if  then  I made  my 
other  friends  my  asylum. 

‘‘The  valiant  warrior  famoused  for  fight, 

After  a hundred  victories,  once  foiled, 

Is  from  the  book  of  honor  razed  quite, 

And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toiled.” 


FRIENDSHIP. 


179 


Our  impatience  is  thus  sharply  rebuked.  Bash- 
fulness and  apathy  are  a tough  husk  in  which  a 
delicate  organization  is  protected  from  premature 
ripening.  It  would  be  lost  if  it  knew  itself  before 
any  of  the  best  souls  were  yet  ripe  enough  to  know 
and  own  it.  Respect  the  naturlangsamkeit  which 
hardens  the  ruby  in  a million  years,  and  v/orks  in 
duration,  in  which  Alps  and  Andes  come  and  go 
as  rainbows.  The  good  spirit  of  our  life  has  no 
heaven  which  is  the  price  of  rashness.  Love, 
which  is  the  essence  of  God,  is  not  for  levity,  but 
for  the  total  worth  of  man.  Let  us  not  have  this 
childish  luxui*y  in  our  regards  ; but  the  austerest 
worth  ; let  us  approach  our  friend  with  an  auda- 
cious trust  in  the  truth  of  his  heart,  in  the  breadth 
impossible  to  be  overturned,  of  his  foundations. 

The  attractions  of  this  subject  are  not  to  be  re- 
sisted, and  I leave,  for  the  time,  all  account  of 
subordinate  social  benefit,  to  speak  of  that  select 
and  sacred  relation  which  is  a kind  of  absolute, 
and  which  even  leaves  the  language  of  love  sus- 
picious and  common,  so  much  is  this  purer,  and 
nothing  is  so  much  divine. 

I do  not  wish  to  treat  friendships  daintily,  but 
with  roughest  courage.  When  they  are  real,  they 
are  not  glass  threads  or  frost-work,  but  the  solid- 
est  thing  we  know.  For  now,  after  so  many  ages 
of  experience,  what  do  we  know  of  nature,  or  of 
ourselves?  Not  one  step  has  man  taken  toward 
the  solution  of  the  problem  of  his  destiny.  In 
one  condemnation  of  folly  stand  the  whole  uni- 
verse of  men.  But  the  sweet  sincerity  of  joy  and 


i8o 


ESSAY  VI. 


peace,  which  I draw  from  this  alliance  with  my 
brother’s  soul,  is  the  nut  itself  whereof  all  nature 
and  all  thought  is  but  the  husk  and  shell.  Happy 
is  the  house  that  shelters  a friend  ! It  might  well 
be  built,  like  a festal  bower  or  arch,  to  entertain 
him  a single  day.  Happier,  if  he  know  the  solem- 
nity of  that  relation,  and  honor  its  law ! It  is  no 
idle  band,  no  holiday  engagement.  He  who  offers 
himself  as  a candidate  for  that  covenant,  comes  up, 
like  an  Olympian,  to  the  great  games,  where  the 
first-born  of  the  world  are  the  competitors.  He 
proposes  himself  for  contests  where  Time,  Want, 
Danger  are  in  the  lists,  and  he  alone  is  victor  who 
has  truth  enough  in  his  constitution  to  preserve 
the  delicacy  of  his  beauty  from  the  wear  and  tear 
of  all  these.  The  gifts  of  fortune  may  be  present 
or  absent,  but  all  the  hap  in  that  contest  depends 
on  intrinsic  nobleness,  and  the  contempt  of  trifles. 
There  are  two  elements  that  go  to  the  composi- 
tion of  friendship,  each  so  sovereign,  that  1 can 
detect  no  superiority  in  either,  no  reason  why 
either  should  be  first  named.  One  is  Truth.  A 
friend  is  a person  with  whom  I may  be  sincere. 
Before  him,  I may  think  aloud.  I am  arrived  at 
last  in  the  presence  of  a man  so  real  and  equal, 
that  I may  drop  even  those  undermost  garments 
of  dissimulation,  courtesy,  and  second  thought, 
which  men  never  put  off,  and  may  deal  with  him 
with  the  simplicity  and  wholeness  with  which  one 
chemical  atom  meets  another.  Sincerity  is  the 
luxury  allowed,  like  diadems  and  authority,  only 
to  the  highest  rank,  that  being  permitted  to  speak 


FRIENDSHIP. 


i8i 

truth,  as  having  none  above  it  to  court  or  conform 
unto.  Every  man  alone  is  sincere.  At  the  en- 
trance of  a second  person,  hypocrisy  begins.  We 
parry  and  fend  the  approach  of  our  fellow-man  by 
compliments,  by  gossip,  by  amusements,  by  affairs. 
We  cover  up  our  thought  from  him  under  a hun- 
dred folds.  I knew  a man  who,  under  a certain 
religious  frenzy,  cast  off  this  drapery,  and  omit- 
ting ail  compliment  and  commonplace,  spoke  to 
the  conscience  of  every  person  he  encountered, 
and  that  with  great  insight  and  beauty.  At  first 
he  was  resisted,  and  all  men  agreed  he  was  mad. 
But  persisting,  as  indeed  he  could  not  help  doing, 
for  some  time  in  this  course,  he  attained  to  the 
advantage  of  bringing  every  man  of  his  acquain- 
tance into  true  relations  with  him.  No  man 
would  think  of  speaking  falsely  with  him,  or  of 
putting  him  off  with  any  chat  of  markets  or  read- 
ing-rooms. But  every  man  was  constrained  by  so 
much  sincerity  to  face  him,  and  what  love  of  na- 
ture, what  poetry,  what  symbol  of  truth  he  had, 
he  did  certainly  show  him.  But  to  most  of  us  so- 
ciety shows  not  its  face  and  eye,  but  its  side  and 
its  back.  To  stand  in  true  relations  with  men  in 
a false  age,  is  worth  a fit  of  insanity,  is  it  not  ? 
We  can  seldom  go  erect.  Almost  every  man  we 
meet  requires  some  civility,  requires  to  be  hu- 
mored ; — he  has  some  fame,  some  talent,  some 
whim  of  religion  or  philanthrophy  in  his  head  that 
is  not  to  be  questioned,  and  so  spoils  all  conversa- 
tion with  him.  But  a friend  is  a sane  man  who 
exercises  not  my  ingenuity  but  me.  My  friend 


i82 


ESSAY  VL 


gives  me  entertainment  without  requiring  me  to 
stoop,  or  to  lisp,  or  to  mask  myself.  A friend, 
therefore,  is  a sort  of  paradox  in  nature.  I who 
alone  am,  I who  see  nothing  in  nature  whose  ex- 
istence I can  affirm  with  equal  evidence  to  my 
own,  behold  now  the  semblance  of  my  being  in  all 
its  height,  variety  and  curiosity,  reiterated  in  a 
foreign  form  ; so  that  a friend  may  well  be  reck- 
oned the  masterpiece  of  nature. 

The  other  element  of  friendship  is  Tenderness. 
We  are  holden  to  men  by  every  sort  of  tie,  by 
blood,  by  pride,  by  fear,  by  hope,  by  lucre,  by  lust, 
by  hate,  by  admiration,  by  every  circumstance 
and  badge  and  trifle,  but  we  can  scarce  believe 
that  so  much  character  can  subsist  in  another  as 
to  draw  us  by  love.  Can  another  be  so  blessed, 
and  we  so  pure,  that  we  can  offer  him  tenderness? 
When  a man  becomes  dear  to  me,  I have  touched 
the  goal  of  fortune.  I And  very  little  written 
directly  to  the  heart  of  this  matter  in  books. 
And  yet  I have  one  text  which  I cannot  choose 
but  remember.  My  author  says,  I offer  myself 
faintly  and  bluntly  to  those  whose  I effectually 
am,  and  tender  myself  least  to  him  to  whom  I 
am  the  most  devoted.”  I wish  that  friendship 
should  have  feet,  as  well  as  eyes  and  eloquence. 
It  must  plant  itself  on  the  ground,  before  it  walks 
over  the  moon.  I wish  it  to  be  a little  of  a citi- 
zen, before  it  is  quite  a cherub.  We  chide  the 
citizen  because  he  makes  love  a commodity.  It  is 
an  exchange  of  gifts,  of  useful  loans  ; it  is  good 
neighborhood ; it  watches  with  the  sick  ; it  holds 


FRIENDSHIP. 


183 

the  pall  at  the  funeral ; and  quite  loses  sight  of 
the  delicacies  and  nobility  of  the  relation.  But 
though  we  cannot  find  the  god  under  this  disguise 
of  a sutler,  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  we  cannot  for- 
give the  poet  if  he  spins  his  thread  too  fine,  and 
does  not  substantiate  his  romance  by  the  munic- 
ipal virtues  of  justice,  punctuality,  fidelity  and 
pity.  I hate  the  prostitution  of  the  name  of 
friendship  to  signify  modish  and  worldly  alliances* 
I much  prefer  the  company  of  plough-boys  and 
tin-peddlers,  to  the  silken  and  perfumed  amity 
which  only  celebrates  its  days  of  encounter  by  a 
frivolous  display,  by  rides  in  a curricle,  and  din- 
ners at  the  best  taverns.  The  end  of  friendship 
is  a commerce  the  most  strict  and  homely  that 
can  be  joined  ; more  strict  than  any  of  which  we 
have  experience.  It  is  for  aid  and  comfort 
through  all  the  relations  and  passages  of  life  and 
death.  It  is  fit  for  serene  days,  and  graceful  gifts^ 
and  country  rambles,  but  also  for  rough  roads  and 
hard  fare,  shipwreck,  poverty,  and  persecution* 
It  keeps  company  with  the  sallies  of  the  wit  and 
the  trances  of  religion.  We  are  to  dignify  to 
each  other  the  daily  needs  and  offices  of  man’s 
life,  and  embellish  it  by  courage,  wisdom  and 
unity.  It  should  never  fall  into  something  usual 
and  settled,  but  should  be  alert  and  inventive, 
and  add  rhyme  and  reason  to  what  was  drudgery* 
For  perfect  friendship  it  may  be  said  to  require 
natures  so  rare  and  costly,  so  well  tempered  each, 
and  so  happily  adapted,  and  withal  so  circum- 
stanced, (for  even  in  that  particular,  a poet  says. 


love  demands  that  the  parties  be  altogether 
paired)  that  very  seldom  can  its  satisfaction  be 
realized.  It  cannot  subsist  in  its  perfection,  say 
some  of  those  who  are  learned  in  this  warm  lore 
of  the  heart,  betwixt  more  than  two.  I am  not 
quite  so  strict  in  my  terms,  perhaps  because  I 
have  never  known  so  high  a fellowship  as  others. 
I please  my  imagination  more  with  a circle  of 
godlike  men  and  women  variously  related  to  each 
other,  and  between  whom  subsists  a lofty  intelli- 
gence. But  I find  this  law  of  one  to  one^  peremp- 
tory for  conversation,  which  is  the  practice  and 
consummation  of  friendship.  Do  not  mix  waters 
too  much.  The  best  mix  as  ill  as  good  and  bad. 
You  shall  have  very  useful  and  cheering  discourse 
at  several  times  with  two  several  men,  but  let  all 
three  of  you  come  together,  and  you  shall  not 
have  one  new  and  hearty  word.  Two  may  talk 
and  one  may  hear,  but  three  cannot  take  part  in  a 
conversation  of  the  most  sincere  and  searching 
sort.  In  good  company  there  is  never  such  dis- 
course between  two,  across  the  table,  as  takes 
place  when  you  leave  them  alone.  In  good  com- 
pany, the  individuals  at  once  merge  their  egotism 
into  a social  soul  exactly  co-extensive  with  the 
several  consciousnesses  there  present.  No  partial- 
ities of  friend  to  friend,  no  fondnesses  of  brother 
to  sister,  of  wife  to  husband,  are  there  pertinent, 
but  quite  otherwise.  Only  he  may  then  speak 
who  can  sail  on  the  common  thought  of  the  party, 
and  not  poorly  limited  to  his  own.  Now  this 
convention,  which  good  sense  demands,  destroys 


FRIENDSHIP, 


185 


the  high  freedom  of  great  conversation,  which  re- 
quires an  absolute  running  of  two  souls  into  one. 

No  two  men  but  being  left  alone  with  each 
other,  enter  into  simpler  relations.  Yet  it  is 
affinity  that  determines  which  two  shall  converse. 
Unrelated  men  give  little  joy  to  each  other ; will 
never  suspect  the  latent  powers  of  each.  We 
talk  sometimes  of  a great  talent  for  conversation, 
as  if  it  were  a permanent  property  in  some  indi- 
viduals. Conversation  is  an  evanescent  relation, 
— no  more.  A man  is  reputed  to  have  thought 
and  eloquence  ; he  cannot,  for  all  that,  say  a word 
to  his  co^usin  or  his  uncle.  They  accuse  his 
silence  with  as  much  reason  as  they  would  blame 
the  insignificance  of  a dial  in  the  shade.  In  the 
sun  it  will  mark  the  hour.  Among  those  who  en- 
joy his  thought,  he  will  regain  his  tongue. 

Friendship  requires  that  rare  mean  betwixt 
likeness  and  unlikeness,  that  piques  each  witli  the 
presence  of  power  and  of  consent  in  the  other 
party.  Let  me  be  alone  to  the  end  of  the  world, 
rather  than  that  my  friend  should  overstep  b}^  a 
word  or  a look  his  real  sympathy.  I am  equally 
baulked  by  antagonism  and  by  compliance.  Let 
him  not  cease  an  instant  to  be  himself.  The  only 
joy  I have  in  his  being  mine,  is  that  the  not  mine 
is  mine.  It  turns  the  stomach,  it  blots  the  day- 
light ; where  I looked  for  a manly  furtherance,  or 
at  least  a manly  resistance,  to  find  a mush  of  con- 
cession, Better  be  a nettle  in  the  side  of  your 
friend  than  his  echo.  The  condition  which 
high  friendship  demands  is  ability  to  do  without 


i86 


ESSAV  VI. 


it.  To  be  capable  of  that  high  office,  requires 
great  and  sublime  parts.  There  must  be  very 
two,  before  there  can  be  very  one.  Let  it  be  an 
alliance  of  two  large  formidable  natures,  mutually 
beheld,  mutually  feared,  before  yet  they  recog- 
nize the  deep  identity  which  beneath  these  dis- 
parities unites  them. 

He  only  is  fit  for  this  society  who  is  magnan- 
imous. He  must  be  so,  to  know  its  law.  He 
must  be  one  who  is  sure  that  greatness  and  good- 
ness are  always  economy.  He  must  be  one  who 
is  not  swift  to  intermeddle  with  his  fortunes.  Let 
him  not  dare  to  intermeddle  with  this.  Leave  to 
the  diamond  its  ages  to  grow,  nor  expect  to  accel- 
erate the  births  of  the  eternal.  Friendship  de- 
mands a religious  treatment.  We  must  not  be 
wilful,  we  must  not  provide.  We  talk  of  choosing 
our  friends,  but  friends  are  self-elected.  Reverence 
is  a great  part  of  it.  Treat  j^our  friend  as  a spectacle. 
Of  course,  if  he  be  a man,  he  has  merits  that  are 
not  yours,  and  that  you  cannot  honor,  if  you  must 
needs  hold  him  close  to  your  person.  Stand 
aside.  Give  those  merits  room.  Let  them  mount 
and  expand.  Be  not  so  much  his  friend  that  you 
can  never  know  his  peculiar  energies,  like  fond 
mammas  who  shut  up  their  boy  in  the  house  un- 
til he  is  almost  grown  a girl.  Are  you  the  friend 
of  your  friend’s  buttons,  or  of  his  thought  ? To 
a great  heart  he  will  still  be  a stranger  in  a thou- 
sand particulars,  that  he  may  come  near  in  the 
holiest  ground.  Leave  it  to  girls  and  boys  to  re- 
gard a friend  as  property,  and  to  suck  a short  and 


FRIENDSHIP.  187 

all-confounding  pleasure  instead  of  the  pure  nec- 
tar of  God. 

Let  us  buy  our  entrance  to  this  guild  by  a long 
probation.  Why  should  we  desecrate  noble  and 
beautiful  souls  by  intruding  on  them  ? Why  in- 
sist on  rash  personal  relations  with  your  friend  ? 
Why  go  to  his  house,  or  know  his  mother  and 
brother  and  sisters  ? Why  be  visited  by  him  at 
your  own  ^ Are  these  things  material  to  our 
covenant?  Leave  this  touching  and  clawing. 
Let  him  be  to  me  a spirit.  A message,  a thought, 
a sincerity,  a glance  from  him,  I want,  but  not 
news,  nor  pottage.  I can  get  politics,  and  chat, 
and  neighborly  conveniences,  from  cheaper  com- 
panions. Should  not  the  society  of  my  friend  be 
to  me  poetic,  pure,  universal,  and  great  as  nature 
itself?  Ought  I to  feel  that  our  tie  is  profane  in 
comparison  with  yonder  bar  of  cloud  that  sleeps 
on  the  horizon,  or  that  clump  of  waving  grass  that 
divides  the  brook?  Let  us  not  vilify  but  raise  it 
to  that  standard.  That  great  defying  eye,  that 
scornful  beauty  of  his  mien  and  action,  do  not 
pique  yourself  on  reducing,  but  rather  fortify  and 
enhance.  Worship  his  superiorities.  Wish  him 
not  less  by  a thought,  but  hoard  and  tell  them  all. 
Guard  him  as  thy  great  counterpart ; have  a 
princedom  to  thy  friend.  Let  him  be  to  thee  for- 
ever a sort  of  beautiful  enemy,  untamable,  de- 
voutly revered,  and  not  a trivial  conveniency  to 
be  soon  outgrown  and  cast  aside.  The  hues  of 
the  opal,  the  light  of  the  diamond,  are  not  to  be 
seen,  if  the  eye  is  too  near.  To  my  friend  I write 


ESSAY  VI. 


I88 

a letter,  and  from  him  I receive  a letter.  That 
seems  to  you  a little.  Me  it  suffices.  It  is  a spir- 
itual gift  worthy  of  him  to  give  and  of  me  to  re- 
ceive. It  profanes  nobody.  In  these  warm  lines 
the  heart  will  trust  itself,  as  it  will  not  to  the 
tongue,  and  pour  out  the  prophecy  of  a godlier 
existence  than  all  the  annals  of  heroism  have  yet 
made  good. 

Respect  so  far  the  holy  laws  of  this  fellowship 
as  not  to  prejudice  its  perfect  flower  by  your  im- 
patience for  its  opening.  We  must  be  our  own, 
before  we  can  be  another’s.  There  is  at  least  this 
satisfaction  in  crime,  according  to  the  Latin  prov- 
erb ; you  can  speak  to  your  accomplice  on  even 
terms.  Crimen  quos  inquinat^  cequat.  To  those 
whom  we  admire  and  love,  at  first  we  cannot. 
Yet  the  least  defect  of  self-possession  vitiates,  in 
my  judgment,  the  entire  relation.  There  can 
never  be  deep  peace  between  two  spirits,  never 
mutual  respect  until,  in  their  dialogue,  each  stands 
for  the  whole  world. 

What  is  so  great  as  friendship  let  us  carry 
with  what  grandeur  of  spirit  we  can.  Let  us  be 
silent, — so  we  may  hear  the  whisper  of  the  gods. 
Let  us  not  interfere.  Who  set  you  to  cast  about 
what  you  should  say  to  the  select  souls,  or  to  say 
anything  to  such?  No  matter  how  ingenious,  no 
matter  how  graceful  and  bland.  There  are  in- 
numerable degrees  of  folly  and  wisdom,  and  for 
you  to  say  aught  is  to  be  frivolous.  Wait,  and 
thy  soul  shall  speak.  Wait  until  the  necessary 
and  everlasting  overpowers  you,  until  day  and 


FRIENDSHIP. 


189 


night  avail  themselves  of  your  lips.  The  only 
money  of  God  is  God.  He  pays  never  with  any- 
thing less  or  anything  else.  The  only  reward  of 
virtue,  is  virtue  ; the  only  way  to  have  a friend,  is 
to  be  one.  Vain  to  hope  to  come  nearer  a man  by 
getting  into  his  house.  If  unlike,  his  soul  only 
iiees  the  faster  from  you,  and  you  shall  catch  never 
a true  glance  of  his  eye.  We  see  the  noble  afar 
off,  and  they  repel  us ; why  should  we  intrude  ? 
Late — very  late — we  perceive  that  po  arrange- 
ments, no  introductions,  no  consuetudes,  or  habits 
of  society,  would  be  of  any  avail  to  establish  us  in 
such  relations  with  them  as  we  desire, — but  solely 
the  uprise  of  nature  in  us  to  the  same  degree  it 
is  in  them  ; then  shall  we  meet  as  water  with 
water ; and  if  we  should  not  meet  them  then,  we 
shall  not  want  them,  for  we  are  already  they.  In 
the  last  analysis,  love  is  only  the  reflection  of  a 
man’s  own  worthiness  from  other  men.  Men  have 
sometimes  exchanged  names  with  their  friends,  as 
if  they  would  signify  that  in  their  friend  each 
loved  his  own  soul. 

The  higher  the  style  we  demand  of  friendship, 
of  course  the  less  easy  to  establish  it  with  flesh 
and  blood.  We  walk  alone  in  the  world.  Friends, 
such  as  we  desire,  are  dreams  and  fables.  But  a 
sublime  hope  cheers  ever  the  faithful  heart,  that 
elsewhere,  in  other  regions  of  the  universal  power, 
souls  are  now  acting,  enduring,  and  daring,  which 
can  love  us,  and  which  we  can  love.  We  may 
congratulate  ourselves  that  the  period  of  nonage, 
of  follies,  of  blunders,  and  of  shame,  is  passed  in 


ESSAY  VI. 


190 

solitude,  and  when  we  are  finished  men,  we  shall 
grasp  heroic  hands  in  heroic  hands.  Only  be  ad- 
monished by  what  you  already  see,  not  to  strike 
leagues  of  friendship  with  cheap  persons,  where 
no  friendship  can  be.  Our  impatience  betrays  us 
into  rash  and  foolish  alliances  which  no  God  at- 
tends. By  persisting  in  your  path,  though  you 
forfeit  the  little,  you  gain  the  great.  You  become 
pronounced.  You  demonstrate  yourself,  so  as  to 
put  yourself  out  of  the  reach  of  false  relations, 
and  you  draw  to  you  the  first-born  of  the  world, 
— those  rare  pilgrims  whereof  only  one  or  two 
wander  in  nature  at  once,  and  before  whom  the 
vulgar  great,  show  as  spectres  and  shadows  merely. 

It  is  foolish  to  be  afraid  of  making  our  ties  too 
spiritual,  as  if  so  we  could  lose  any  genuine  love. 
Whatever  correction  of  our  popular  views  we 
make  from  insight,  nature  will  be  sure  to  bear  us 
out  in,  and  though  it  seem  to  rob  us  of  some  joy, 
will  repay  us  with  a greater.  Let  us  feel,  if  we 
will,  the  absolute  insulation  of  man.  We  are  sure 
that  we  have  all  in  us.  We  go  to  Europe,  or  we 
pursue  persons,  or  we  read  books,  in  the  instinct- 
ive faith  that  these  will  call  it  out  and  reveal  us  to 
ourselves.  Beggars  all.  The  persons  are  such  as 
we ; the  Europe,  an  old  faded  garment  of  dead 
persons ; the  books,  their  ghosts.  Let  us  drop 
this  idolatry.  Let  us  give  over  this  mendicancy. 
Let  us  even  bid  our  dearest  friends  farewell,  and 
defy  them,  saying,  ‘‘  Who  are  you  ? Unhand  me ; 
I will  be  dependent  no  more.”  Ah ! seest  thou 
not,  O brother,  that  thus  we  part  only  to  meet 


FRIENDSHIP, 


191 

again  on  a higher  platform,  and  only  be  more  each 
other’s,  because  we  are  more  our  own  ? A friend 
is  Janus-faced : he  looks  to  the  past  and  the 
future.  He  is  the  child  of  all  my  foregoing  hours, 
the  prophet  of  those  to  come.  He  is  the  harbinger 
of  a greater  friend.  It  is  the  property  of  the  di- 
vine to  be  reproductive. 

I do  then  with  my  friends  as  I do  with  my 
books.  I would  have  them  where  I can  find 
them,  but  I seldom  use  them.  We  must  have 
society  on  our  own  terms,  and  admit  or  exclude 
it  on  the  slightest  cause.  I cannot  afford  to 
speak  much  with  my  friend.  If  he  is  great,  he 
makes  me  so  great  that  I cannot  descend  to  con- 
verse. In  the  great  days,  presentiments  hover 
before  me,  far  before  me  in  the  firmament.  I 
ought  then  to  dedicate  myself  to  them.  I go  in 
that  I may  seize  them,  I go  out  that  I may 
seize  them.  I fear  only  that  I may  lose  them 
receding  into  the  sky  in  which  now  they  are  only 
a patch  of  brighter  light.  Then,  though  I prize 
my  friends,  I cannot  afford  to  talk  with  them  and 
study  their  visions,  lest  I lose  my  own.  It  would 
indeed  give  me  a certain  household  joy  to  quit 
this  lofty  seeking,  this  spiritual  astronomy,  or 
search  of  stars,  and  come  down  to  warm  sympa- 
thies with  you ; but  then  I know  well  I shall 
mourn  always  the  vanishing  of  my  mighty  gods. 
It  is  true,  next  week  I shall  have  languid  times, 
when  I can  well  afford  to  occupy  myself  with 
foreign  objects ; then  I shall  regret  the  lost  liter- 
ature of  your  mind,  and  wish  you  were  by  my 


igz 


ESSAV  VI. 


side  again.  But  if  you  come,  perhaps  you  will 
fill  my  mind  only  with  new  visions,  not  with 
yourself  but  with  your  lustres,  and  I shall  not  be 
able  any  more  than  now  to  converse  with  you. 
So  I will  owe  to  iny  friends  this  evanescent  inter- 
course. I will  receive  from  them  not  what  they 
have,  but  what  they  are.  They  shall  give  me  that 
which  properly  they  cannot  give  me,  but  which 
radiates  from  them.  But  they  shall  not  hold  me 
by  any  relations  less  subtle  and  pure.  We  will 
meet  as  though  we  met  not,  and  part  as  though 
we  parted  not. 

It  has  seemed  to  me  lately  more  possible  than 
I knew,  to  carry  a friendship  greatly,  on  one  side, 
without  due  correspondence  on  the  other.  Why 
should  I cumber  myself  with  the  poor  fact  that 
the  receiver  is  not  capacious?  It  never  troubles 
the  sun  that  some  of  his  rays  fall  wide  and  vain 
into  ungrateful  space,  and  only  a small  part  on  the 
reflecting  planet.  Let  your  greatness  educate  the 
crude  and  cold  companion.  If  he  is  unequal,  he 
will  presently  pass  away,  but  thou  art  enlarged 
by  thy  own  shining;  and,  no  longer  a mate  for 
frogs  and  worms,  dost  soar  and  burn  with  the 
gods  of  the  empyrean.  It  is  thought  a disgrace 
to  love  unrequited.  But  the  great  will  see  that 
true  love  cannot  be  unrequited.  True  love  tran- 
scends instantly  the  unworthy  object,  and  dwells 
and  broods  on  the  eternal,  and  when  the  poor, 
interposed  mask  crumbles,  it  is  not  sad,  but  feels 
rid  of  so  much  earth,  and  feels  its  independency 
the  surer.  Yet  these  things  may  hardly  be  said 


FRIENDSHIP. 


193 


without  a sort  of  treachery  to  the  relation.  The 
essence  of  friendship  is  entireness,  a total  mag- 
nanimity and  trust.  It  must  not  surmise  or  pro- 
vide for  infirmity.  It  treats  its  object  as  a god, 
that  it  may  deify  both. 


13 


PRUDENCE. 


PRUDENCE. 


What  right  have  I to  write  on  Prudence, 
whereof  I have  little,  and  that  of  the  negative 
sort?  My  prudence  consists  in  avoiding  and 
going  without,  not  in  the  inventing  of  means 
and  methods,  not  in  adroit  steering,  not  in  gen- 
tle repairing.  I have  no  skill  to  make  money 
spend  well,  no  genius  in  my  economy,  and  who- 
ever sees  my  garden,  discovers  that  I must  have 
some  other  garden.  Yet  I love  facts,  and  hate 
lubricity,  and  people  without  perception.  Then 
I have  the  same  title  to  write  on  prudence,  that  I 
have  to  write  on  poetry  or  holiness.  We  write 
from  aspiration  and  antagonism,  as  well  as  from 
experience.  We  paint  those  qualities  which  we 
do  not  possess.  The  poet  admires  the  man  of 
energy  and  tactics ; the  merchant  breeds  his  son 
for  the  church  or  the  bar : and  where  a man  is 
not  vain  and  egotistic,  j^ou  shall  find  what  he  has 
not,  by  his  praise.  Moreover,  it  would  be  hardly 
honest  in  me  not  to  balance  these  fine  lyric  words 
of  Love  and  Friendship  with  words  of  coarser 
sound,  and  whilst  my  debt  to  my  senses  is  real  and 
constant,  not  to  own  it  in  passing. 


(197) 


198 


ESSAY  VII, 


Prudence  is  the  virtue  of  the  senses.  It  is  the 
science  of  appearances.  It  is  the  outmost  action 
of  the  inward  life.  It  is  God  taking  thought  for 
oxen.  It  moves  matter  after  the  laws  of  matter. 
It  is  content  to  seek  health  of  body  by  complying 
with  physical  conditions,  and  health  of  mind  by 
the  laws  of  the  intellect. 

The  world  of  the  senses  is  a world  of  shows ; 
it  does  not  exist  for  itself,  but  has  a symbolic 
character ; and  a true  prudence  or  law  of  shows, 
recognises  the  co-presence  of  other  laws ; and 
knows  that  its  own  office  is  subaltern  ; knows 
that  it  is  surface  and  not  centre  where  it  works. 
Prudence  is  false  when  detached.  It  is  legitimate 
when  it  is  the  Natural  History  of  the  soul  incar- 
nate ; when  it  unfolds  the  beauty  of  laws  within 
the  narrow  scope  of  the  senses. 

There  are  all  degrees  of  proficiency  in  knowl- 
edge of  the  world.  It  is  sufficient,  to  our  present 
purpose,  to  indicate  three.  One  class  lives  to  the 
utility  of  the  symbol ; esteeming  health  and 
wealth  a final  good.  Another  class  live  above 
this  mark  to  the  beauty  of  the  symbol ; as  the 
poet,  and  artist,  and  the  naturalist,  and  man  of 
science.  A third  class  live  above  the  beauty  of 
the  symbol  to  the  beauty  of  the  thing  signified  ; 
these  are  wise  men.  The  first  class  have  common 
sense  ; the  second,  taste ; and  the  third,  spiritual 
perception.  Once  in  a long  time,  a man  traverses 
the  whole  scale,  and  sees  and  enjoys  the  symbol 
solidly ; then  also  has  a clear  eye  for  its  beauty, 
and,  lastly,  whilst  he  pitches  his  tent  on  this  sacred 


PRUDENCE, 


199 


volcanic  isle  of  nature,  does  not  offer  to  build 
houses  and  barns  thereon,  reverencing  the 
splendor  of  the  God  which  he  sees  bursting 
through  each  chink  and  cranny. 

The  world  is  filled  with  the  proverbs  and  acts 
and  winkings  of  a base  prudence,  which  is  a de- 
votion to  matter  as  if  we  possessed  no  other  fac- 
ulties than  the  palate,  the  nose,  the  touch,  the  eye 
and  ear;  a prudence  which  adores  the  Rule  of 
Three,  which  never  subscribes,  which  gives  never, 
which  lends  seldom,  and  asks  but  one  question  of 
any  project — Will  it  bake  bread?  This  is  a dis- 
ease like  a thickening  of  the  skin  until  the  vital 
organs  are  destroyed.  But  culture,  revealing  the 
high  origin  of  the  apparent  world,  and  aiming  at 
the  perfection  of  the  man  as  the  end,  degrades 
everything  else,  as  health  and  bodily  life,  into 
means.  It  sees  prudence  not  to  be  a several  fac- 
ulty, but  a name  for  wisdom  and  virtue  convers- 
ing with  the  body  and  its  wants.  Cultivated  men 
always  feel  and  speak  so,  as  if  a great  fortune, 
the  achievement  of  a civil  or  social  measure,  great 
personal  influence,  a graceful  and  commanding 
address  had  their  value  as  proofs  of  the  energy  of 
the  spirit.  If  a man  lose  his  balance,  and  im- 
merse himself  in  any  trades  or  pleasures  for  their 
own  sake,  he  may  be  a good  wheel  or  pin,  but  he 
is  not  a cultivated  man. 

The  spurious  prudence,  making  the  senses  final, 
is  the  god  of  sots  and  cowards,  and  is  the  subject 
of  all  comedy.  It  is  nature’s  joke,  and  therefore 
literature’s.  The  true  prudence  limits  this  sensu- 


200 


ESSAY  VI  L 


alism  by  admitting  the  knowledge  of  an  internal 
and  real  world.  This  recognition  once  made, — 
the  order  of  the  world  and  the  distribution  of  af- 
fairs and  times  being  studied  with  the  co-percep- 
tion of  their  subordinate  place,  will  reward  any 
degree  of  attention.  For,  our  existence  thus  ap- 
parently attached  in  nature  to  the  sun  and  the  re- 
turning moon  and  the  periods  which  they  mark  ; 
so  susceptible  to  climate  and  to  country,  so  alive 
to  social  good  and  evil,  so  fond  of  splendor,  and 
so  tender  to  hunger  and  cold  and  debt, — reads  all 
its  primary  lessons  out  of  these  books. 

Prudence  does  not  go  behind  nature,  and  ask, 
whence  it  is?  It  takes  the  laws  of  the  world 
whereby  man’s  being  is  conditioned,  as  they  are, 
and  keeps  these  laws,  that  it  may  enjoy  their 
proper  good.  It  respects  space  and  time,  climate, 
want,  sleep,  the  law  of  polarity,  growth  and  death. 
There  revolve  to  give  bound  and  period  to  his 
being,  on  all  sides,  the  sun  and  moon,  the  great 
formalists  in  the  sky;  here  lies  stubborn  matter, 
and  will  not  swerve  from  its  chemical  routine. 
Here  is  a planted  globe,  pierced  and  belted  with 
natural  laws,  and  fenced  and  distributed  externally 
with  civil  partitions  and  properties  which  impose 
new  restraints  on  the  young  inhabitant. 

We  eat  of  the  bread  which  grows  in  the  field. 
We  live  by  the  air  which  blows  around  us,  and  we 
are  poisoned  by  the  air  that  is  too  cold  or  too  hot, 
too  dry  or  too  wet.  Time,  which  shows  so  va- 
cant, indivisible  and  divine  in  its  coming,  is  slit 
and  peddled  into  trifles  and  tatters.  A door  is  to 


PRUDENCE. 


201 


be  painted,  a lock  to  be  repaired.  I want  wood, 
or  oil,  or  meal,  or  salt ; the  house  smokes,  or  I 
have  a headache ; then  the  tax ; and  an  aflPair  to 
be  transacted  with  a man  without  heart  or  brains ; 
and  the  stinging  recollection  of  an  injurious  or 
very  awkward  word, — these  eat  up  the  hours.  Do 
what  we  can,  summer  will  have  its  flies.  If  we 
walk  in  the  woods,  we  must  feed  musquitoes.  If 
we  go  a fishing,  we  must  expect  a wet  coat.  Then 
climate  is  a great  impediment  to  idle  persons.  We 
often  resolve  to  give  up  the  care  of  the  weather, 
but  still  we  regard  the  clouds  and  the  rain. 

We  are  instructed  by  these  petty  experiences 
which  usurp  the  hours  and  years.  The  hard  soil 
and  four  months  of  snow  make  the  inhabitant  of 
the  northern  temperate  zone  wiser  and  abler  than 
his  fellow  who  enjoys  the  fixed  smile  of  the  trop- 
ics. The  islander  may  ramble  all  day  at  will. 
At  night,  he  may  sleep  on  a mat  under  the  moon, 
and  wherever  a wild  date-tree  grows,  nature  has, 
without  a prayer  even,  spread  a table  for  his 
morning  meal.  The  northerner  is  perforce  a 
householder.  He  must  brew,  bake,  salt  and  pre- 
serve his  food.  He  must  pile  wood  and  coal.  But 
as  it  happens  that  not  one  stroke  can  labor  lay  to, 
without  some  new  acquaintance  with  nature  ; and 
as  nature  is  inexhaustibly  significant,  the  inhabit- 
ants of  these  climates  have  always  excelled  the 
southerner  in  force.  Such  is  the  value  of  these 
matters,  that  a man  who  knows  other  things,  can 
never  know  too  much  of  these.  Let  him  have 
accurate  perceptions.  Let  him,  if  he  have  hands. 


202 


ESSAY  VII. 


handle  ; if  eyes,  measure  and  discriminate ; let 
him  accept  and  hive  every  fact  of  chemistry, 
natural  history,  and  economics ; the  more  he  has, 
the  less  is  he  willing  to  spare  any  one.  Time  is 
always  bringing  the  occasions  that  disclose  their 
value.  Some  wisdom  comes  out  of  every  natural 
and  innocent  action.  The  domestic  man,  who 
loves  no  music  so  well  as  his  kitchen  clock,  and 
the  airs  which  the  logs  sing  to  him  as  they  burn 
on  the  hearth,  has  solaces  which  others  never 
dream  of.  The  application  of  means  to  ends,  en- 
sures victory  and  the  songs  of  victory  not  less  in 
a farm  or  a shop,  than  in  the  tactics  of  party,  or 
of  war.  The  good  husband  finds  method  as  ef- 
ficient in  the  packing  of  fire-wood  in  a shed,  or  in 
the  harvesting  of  fruits  in  the  cellar,  as  in  Penin- 
sular campaigns  or  the  files  of  the  Department  of 
State.  Ill  the  rainy  day  he  builds  a work-bench, 
or  gets  his  tool-box  set  in  the  corner  of  the  barn- 
chamber,  and  stored  with  nails,  gimlet,  pincers, 
screwdriver,  and  chisel.  Herein  he  tastes  an  old 
joy  of  youth  and  childhood,  the  cat-like  love  of 
garrets,  presses,  and  corn-chambers,  and  of  the 
conveniences  of  long  housekeeping.  His  garden 
or  his  poultry-yard, — very  paltry  places,  it  may 
be, — tell  him  many  pleasant  anecdotes.  One 
might  find  argument  for  optimism,  in  the  abund- 
ant flow  of  this  saccharine  element  of  pleasure, 
in  every  suburb  and  extremity  of  the  good  world. 
Let  a man  keep  the  law, — any  law, — and  his  way 
will  be  strewn  with  satisfactions.  There  is  more 


PRUDENCE.  203 

difference  in  the  quality  of  our  pleasures  than  in 
the  amount. 

On  the  other  hand,  nature  punishes  any  neglect 
of  prudence.  If  you  think  the  senses  final,  obey 
their  law.  If  you  believe  in  the  soul,  do  not 
clutch  at  sensual  sweetness  before  it  is  ripe  on 
the  slow  tree  of  cause  and  effect.  It  is  vinegar 
to  the  eyes,  to  deal  with  men  of  loose  and  imper- 
fect perception.  Dr.  Johnson  is  reported  to  have 
said,  “If  the  child  says  he  looked  out  of  this 
window  when  he  looked  out  of  that, — whip  him.” 
Our  American  character  is  marked  by  a more 
than  average  delight  in  accurate  perception,  which 
is  shown  by  the  currency  of  the  by-word,  “ No 
mistake.”  But  the  discomfort  of  unpunctiiality, 
of  confusion  of  thought  about  facts,  of  inatten- 
tion to  the  wants  of  to-morrow,  is  of  no  nation. 
The  beautiful  laws  of  time  and  space  once  dislo- 
cated by  our  inaptitude,  are  holes  and  dens.  If 
the  hive  be  disturbed  by  rash  and  stupid  hands, 
instead  of  honey,  it  will  yield  us  bees.  Our 
words  and  actions  to  be  fair,  must  be  timely.  A 
gay  and  pleasant  sound  is  the  whetting  of  the 
scythe  in  the  mornings  of  June;  yet  what  is  more 
lonesome  and  sad  than  the  sound  of  a whetstone 
or  mower’s  rifle,  when  it  is  too  late  in  the  season 
to  make  hay?  Scatter-brained  and  “afternoon 
men  ” spoil  much  more  than  their  own  affair,  in 
spoiling  the  temper  of  those  who  deal  with  them. 
I have  seen  a criticism  on  some  paintings,  of 
which  I am  reminded,  when  I see  the  shiftless  and 
unhappy  men  who  are  not  true  to  their  senses. 


204 


ESSAV  VII. 


The  last  Grand  Duke  of  Weimar,  a man  of  su- 
perior understanding,  said : “ I have  sometimes 
remarked  in  the  presence  of  great  works  of  art, 
and  just  now  especially,  in  Dresden,  how  much  a 
certain  property  contributes  to  the  effect  which 
gives  life  to  the  figures,  and  to  the  life  an  irresist- 
ible truth.  This  property  is  the  hitting,  in  all  the 
figures  we  draw,  the  right  centre  of  gravity.  I 
mean,  the  placing  the  figures  firm  upon  their  feet, 
making  the  hands  grasp,  and  fastening  the  eyes 
on  the  spot  where  they  should  look.  Even  life- 
less figures,  as  vessels  and  stools, — let  them  be 
drawn  ever  so  correctly, — lose  all  effect  so  soon 
as  they  lack  the  resting  upon  their  centre  of  grav- 
ity, and  have  a certain  swimming  and  oscillating 
appearance.  The  Raphael,  in  the  Dresden  gallery, 
(the  only  greatly  affecting  picture  which  I have 
seen,)  is  the  quietest  and  most  passionless  piece 
you  can  imagine  ; a couple  of  saints  who  worship 
the  Virgin  and  child.  Nevertheless,  it  awakens  a 
deeper  impression  than  the  contortions  of  ten 
crucified  martyrs.  For,  beside  all  the  resistless 
beauty  of  form,  it  possesses  in  the  highest  degree 
the  property  of  the  perpendicularity  of  all  the 
figures.” — This  perpendicularity  we  demand  of 
all  the  figures  in  this  picture  of  life.  Let  them 
stand  on  their  feet,  and  not  float  and  swing.  Let 
us  know  where  to  find  them.  Let  them  discrim- 
inate between  what  they  remember,  and  what 
they  dreamed.  Let  them  call  a spade  a spade. 
Let  them  give  us  facts,  and  honor  their  own 
senses  with  trust. 


PRUDENCE, 


205 


But  what  man  shall  dare  tax  another  with  im- 
prudence ? Who  is  prudent  ? The  men  we  call 
greatest  are  least  in  this  kingdom.  There  is  a cer- 
tain fatal  dislocation  in  our  relation  to  nature,  dis- 
torting all  our  modes  of  living,  and  making  every 
law  our  enemy,  which  seems  at  last  to  have 
aroused  all  the  wit  and  virtue  in  the  world  to  pon- 
der the  question  of  Reform.  We  must  call  the 
highest  prudence  to  counsel,  and  ask  why  health 
and  beauty  and  genius  should  now  be  the  excep- 
tion, rather  than  the  rule  of  human  nature  ? We 
do  not  know  the  properties  of  plants  and  animals 
and  the  laws  of  nature  through  our  sympathy  with 
the  same,  but  this  remains  the  dream  of  poets. 
Poetry  and  prudence  should  be  coincident.  Poets 
should  be  lawgivers ; that  is,  the  boldest  lyric  in- 
spiration should  not  chide  and  insult,  but  should 
announce  and  lead  the  civil  code,  and  the  day’s 
work.  But  now  the  two  things  seem  irreconcilably 
parted.  We  have  violated  law  upon  law,  until 
we  stand  amidst  ruins,  and  when  by  chance  we 
espy  a coincidence  between  reason  and  the  phe- 
nomena, we  are  surprised.  Beauty  should  be  the 
dowry  of  every  man  and  woman,  as  invariably  as 
sensation  ; but  it  is  rare.  Health  or  sound  organ- 
ization should  be  universal.  Genius  should  be  the 
child  of  genius,  and  every  child  should  be  in- 
spired ; but  now  it  is  not  to  be  predicted  of  any 
child,  and  nowhere  is  it  pure.  We  call  partial 
half-lights,  by  courtesy,  genius  ; talent  which  con- 
verts itself  to  money,  talent  which  glitters  to-day, 
that  it  may  dine  and  sleep  well  to-morrow ; and 


206 


ESSAY  VIL 


society  is  officered  by  men  of  parts^  as  they  are 
properly  called,  and  not  by  divine  men.  These 
use  their  gifts  to  refine  luxury,  not  to  abolish  it. 
Genius  is  always  ascetic;  and  piet}^  and  love. 
Appetite  shows  to  the  finer  souls  as  a disease,  and 
they  find  beauty  in  rites  and  bounds  that  resist  it. 

We  have  found  out  fine  names  to  cover  our  sen- 
suality withal,  but  no  gifts  can  raise  intemper- 
ance. The  man  of  talent  affects  to  call  his  trans- 
gressions of  the  laws  of  the  senses  trivial,  and  to 
count  them  nothing  considered  with  his  devotion 
to  his  art.  His  art  rebukes  him.  That  never 
taught  him  lewdness,  nor  the  love  of  wine,  nor 
tlie  wish  to  reap  where  he  had  not  sowed.  His 
art  is  less  for  every  deduction  from  his  holiness, 
and  less  for  every  defect  of  common  sense.  On 
him  who  scorned  the  world,  as  he  said,  the  scorned 
world  wreaks  its  revenge.  He  that  despiseth  small 
things,  will  perish  by  little  and  little.  Goethe’s 
Tasso  is  very  likely  to  be  a pretty  fair  historical 
portrait,  and  that  is  true  tragedy.  It  does  not 
seem  to  me  so  genuine  grief  when  some  tyrannous 
Richard  III.  oppresses  and  slays  a score  of  inno- 
cent persons,  as  when  Antonio  and  Tasso,  both 
apparently  right,  wrong  each  other.  One  living 
after  the  maxims  of  this  world,  and  consistent  and 
true  to  them,  the  other  fired  with  all  divine  sen- 
timents, yet  grasping  also  at  the  pleasures  of  sense, 
without  submitting  to  their  law.  That  is  a grief 
we  all  feel,  a knot  we  cannot  untie.  Tasso’s  is  no 
infrequent  case  in  modern  biography.  A man  of 
genius,  of  an  ardent  temperament,  reckless  of 


PRUDENCE. 


207 


pliysical  laws,  self-indulgent,  becomes  presently 
unfortunate,  querulous,  a ‘‘  discomfortable  cousin,” 
a thorn  to  himself  and  to  others. 

The  scholar  shames  us  by  his  bifold  life.  Whilst 
something  higher  than  prudence  is  active,  he  is 
admirable  ; when  common  sense  is  wanted,  he  is 
an  incumbrance.  Yesterday,  Caesar  was  not  so 
great ; to-day.  Job  not  so  miserable.  Yesterday, 
radiant  with  the  light  of  an  ideal  world,  in  which 
he  lives,  the  first  of  men,  and  now  oppressed  by 
wants,  and  by  sickness,  for  which  he  must  thank 
himself,  none  is  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence.  He 
resembles  the  opium  eaters,  whom  travelers  de- 
scribe as  frequenting  the  bazaars  of  Constantino- 
ple, who  skulk  about  all  day,  the  most  pitiful 
drivellers,  yellow,  emaciated,  ragged,  and  sneak- 
ing ; then,  at  evening,  when  the  bazaars  are  open, 
they  slink  to  the  opium  shop,  swallow  their  mor- 
sel, and  become  tranquil,  glorious,  and  great. 
And  who  has  not  seen  the  tragedy  of  imprudent 
genius,  struggling  for  years  with  paltry  pecuniary 
difficulties,  at  last  sinking,  chilled,  exhausted,  and 
fruitless,  like  a giant  slaughtered  by  pins  ? 

Is  it  not  better  that  a man  should  accept  the 
first  pains  and  mortifications  of  this  sort,  which 
nature  is  not  slack  in  sending  him,  as  hints  that 
he  must  expect  no  other  good  than  the  just  fruit 
of  his  own  labor  and  self-denial  ? Health,  bread, 
climate,  social  position,  have  their  importance, 
and  he  will  give  them  their  due.  Let  him  esteem 
Nature  a perpetual  counsellor,  and  her  perfections 
the  exact  measure  of  our  deviations.  Let  him 


208 


ESSAY  VII. 


make  the  night,  night,  and  the  day,  day.  Let  him 
control  the  habit  of  expense.  Let  him  see  that  as 
much  wisdom  may  be  expended  on  a private  econ- 
omy, as  on  an  empire,  and  as  much  wisdom  may 
be  drawn  from  it.  The  laws  of  the  world  are 
written  out  for  him  on  every  piece  of  money  in 
his  hand.  There  is  nothing  he  will  not  be  the  bet- 
ter for  knowing,  were  it  only  the  wisdom  of  Poor 
Richard ; or  the  State-street  prudence  of  buying 
by  the  acre,  to  sell  by  the  foot ; or  the  thrift  of  the 
agriculturist,  to  stick  a tree  between  whiles,  be- 
cause it  will  grow  whilst  he  sleeps ; or  the  pru- 
dence which  consists  in  husbanding  little  strokes 
of  the  tool,  little  portions  of  time,  particles  of 
stock,  and  small  gains.  The  eye  of  prudence  may 
never  shut.  Iron,  if  kept  at  the  ironmonger’s,  will 
rust.  Beer,  if  not  brewed  in  the  right  state  of 
the  atmosphere,  will  sour.  Timber  of  ships  will 
rot  at  sea,  or,  if  laid  up  high  and  dry,  will  strain, 
warp,  and  dry-rot.  Money,  if  kept  by  us,  yields 
no  rent,  and  is  liable  to  loss  ; if  invested,  is  liable 
to  depreciation  of  the  particular  kind  of  stock. 
Strike,  says  the  smith,  the  iron  is  white.  Keep 
the  rake,  says  the  haymaker,  as  nigh  the  scythe  as 
you  can,  and  the  cart  as  nigh  the  rake.  Our  Yan- 
kee trade  is  reputed  to  be  very  much  on  the  ex- 
treme of  this  prudence.  It  saves  itself  by  its  ac- 
tivity. It  takes  bank-notes — good,  bad,  clean, 
ragged,  and  saves  itself  by  the  speed  with  which 
it  passes  them  off.  Iron  cannot  rust,  nor  beer 
sour,  nor  timber  rot,  nor  calicoes  go  out  of  fash- 
ion, nor  money-stocks  depreciate,  in  the  few  swift 


PRUDENCE, 


209 


moments  which  the  Yankee  suffers  any  one  of  them 
to  remain  in  his  possession.  In  skating  over  thin 
ice,  our  safety  is  in  our  speed. 

Let  him  learn  a prudence  of  a higher  strain. 
Let  him  learn  that  everything  in  nature,  even 
motes  and  feathers,  go  by  law  and  not  by  luck, 
and  that  what  he  sows,  he  reaps.  By  diligence 
and  self-command,  let  him  put  the  bread  he  eats  at 
his  own  disposal,  and  not  at  that  of  others,  that 
he  may  not  stand  in  bitter  and  false  relations  to 
other  men  ; for  the  best  good  of  wealth  is  free- 
dom. Let  him  practice  the  minor  virtues.  How 
much  of  human  life  is  lost  in  waiting!  Let  him 
not  make  his  fellow-creatures  wait.  How  many 
words  and  promises  are  promises  of  conversation  ! 
Let  his  be  words  of  fate.  When  he  sees  a folded 
and  sealed  scrap  of  paper  float  round  the  globe  in 
a pine  ship,  and  come  safe  to  the  eye  for  which  it 
was  written,  amidst  a swarming  population ; let 
him  likewise  feel  the  admonition  to  integrate  his 
being  across  all  these  distracting  forces,  and  keep 
a slender  human  word  among  the  storms,  dis- 
tances, and  accidents,  that  drive  us  hither  and 
thither,  and,  by  persistency,  make  the  paltry  force 
of  one  man  reappear  to  redeem  its  pledge,  after 
months  and  years,  in  the  most  distant  climates. 

We  must  not  try  to  write  the  laws  of  any  one 
virtue,  looking  at  that  only.  Human  nature  loves 
no  contradictions,  but  is  symmetrical.  The  pru- 
dence which  secures  an  outward  well-being,  is  not 
to  be  studied  by  one  set  of  men,  whilst  heroism 
and  holiness  are  studied  by  another,  but  they  are 
14 


210 


ESSAY  VI  L 


reconcilable.  Prudence  concerns  the  present  time, 
persons,  property,  and  existing  forms.  But  as 
every  fact  hath  its  roots  in  the  soul,  and  if  the 
soul  were  changed,  would  cease  to  be,  or  would 
become  some  other  thing,  therefore,  the  proper  ad- 
ministration of  outward  things  will  always  rest  on 
a just  apprehension  of  their  cause  and  origin,  that 
is,  the  good  man  will  be  the  wise  man,  and  the 
single-hearted,  the  politic  man.  Every  violation 
of  truth  is  not  only  a sort  of  suicide  in  the  liar, 
but  is  a stab  at  the  health  of  human  society.  On 
the  most  profitable  lie,  the  course  of  events  pres- 
ently lays  a destructive  tax;  whilst  frankness 
proves  to  be  the  best  tactics,  for  it  invites  frank- 
ness, puts  the  parties  on  a convenient  footing,  and 
makes  their  business  a friendship.  Trust  men, 
and  they  will  be  true  to  you ; treat  them  greatly, 
and  they  will  show  themselves  great,  though  they 
make  an  exception  in  your  favor  to  all  their  rules 
of  trade. 

So,  in  regard  to  disagreeable  and  formidable 
things,  prudence  does  not  consist  in  evasion,  or  in 
flight,  but  in  courage.  He  who  wishes  to  walk  in 
the  most  peaceful  parts  of  life  with  any  sincerity, 
must  screw  himself  up  to  resolution.  Let  him 
front  the  object  of  his  worst  apprehension,  and 
his  stoutness  will  commonly  make  his  fear  ground- 
less. The  Latin  proverb  says,  that  in  battles, 
the  eye  is  first  overcome.”  The  eye  is  daunted, 
and  greatly  exaggerates  the  perils  of  the  hour. 
Entire  self-possession  may  make  a battle  very  little 
more  dangerous  to  life  than  a match  at  foils  or  at 


PRUDENCE, 


2II 


foot-ball.  Examples  are  cited  by  soldiers,  of  men 
who  have  seen  the  cannon  pointed,  and  the  fire 
given  to  it,  and  who  have  stepped  aside  from  the 
path  of  the  ball.  The  terrors  of  the  storm  are 
chiefly  confined  to  the  parlor  and  the  cabin.  The 
drover,  the  sailor,  buffets  it  all  day,  and  his  health 
renews  itself  at  as  vigorous  a pulse  under  the 
sleet,  as  under  the  sun  of  June. 

In  the  occurrence  of  unpleasant  things  among 
neighbors,  fear  comes  readily  to  heart,  and  magni^ 
fies  the  consequence  of  the  other  party ; but  it  is 
a bad  counsellor.  Every  man  is  actually  weak, 
and  apparently  strong.  To  himself,  he  seems 
weak  ; to  others,  formidable.  You  are  afraid  of 
Grim  ; but  Grim  also  is  afraid  of  you.  You  are 
solicitous  of  the  good  will  of  the  meanest  person, 
uneasy  at  his  ill  will.  But  the  sturdiest  offender 
of  your  peace  and  of  the  neighborhood,  if  you  rip 
up  hi%  claims,  is  as  thin  and  timid  as  any  ; and  the 
peace  of  society  is  often  kept,  because,  as  children 
say,  one  is  afraid,  and  the  other  dares  not.  Far 
off,  men  swell,  bully,  and  threaten  ; bring  them 
hand  to  hand,  and  they  are  a feeble  folk. 

It  is  a proverb,  that  “ courtesy  costs  nothing ; ” 
but  calculation  might  come  to  value  love  for  its 
profit.  Love  is  fabled  to  be  blind ; but  kindness 
is  necessary  to  perception  ; love  is  not  a hood,  but 
an  eye-water.  If  you  meet  a sectary,  or  a hostile 
partisan,  never  recognize  the  dividing  lines  ; but 
meet  on  what  common  ground  remains, — if  onlj^ 
that  the  sun  shines,  and  the  rain  rains  for  both, — 
the  area  will  widen  very  fast,  and  ere  you  know 


212 


ESSAY  VII  . 


it,  the  boundary  mountains,  on  which  the  eye  had 
fastened,  have  melted  into  air.  If  he  set  out  to 
contend,  almost  St.  Paul  will  lie,  almost  St.  John 
will  hate.  What  low,  poor,  paltry,  hypocritical  peo- 
ple, an  argument  on  religion  will  make  of  the  pure 
and  chosen  souls.  Shuffle  they  will,  and  crow, 
crook,  and  hide,  feign  to  confess  here,  only  that 
they  may  brag  and  conquer  there,  and  not  a 
thought  has  enriched  either  party,  and  not  an 
emotion  of  bravery,  modesty,  or  hope.  So  neither 
should  you  put  yourself  in  a false  position  to  your 
contemporaries,  by  indulging  a vein  of  hostility 
and  bitterness.  Though  your  views  are  in  straight 
antagonism  to  theirs,  assume  an  identity  of  senti- 
ment, assume  that  you  are  saying  precisely  that 
which  all  think,  and  in  the  flow  of  wit  and  love, 
roll  out  your  paradoxes  in  solid  column,  with  not 
the  infirmity  of  a doubt.  So  at  least  shall  you  get 
an  adequate  deliverance.  The  natural  motions  of 
the  soul  are  so  much  better  than  the  voluntary 
ones,  that  you  will  never  do  yourself  justice  in 
dispute.  The  thought  is  not  then  taken  hold  of 
b}^  the  right  handle,  does  not  show  itself  propor- 
tionate, and  in  its  true  bearings,  but  bears  ex- 
torted, hoarse,  and  half  witness.  But  assume  a 
consent,  and  it  shall  presently  be  granted,  since, 
really,  and  underneath  all  their  external  diversi- 
ties, all  men  are  of  one  heart  and  mind. 

Wisdom  will  never  let  us  stand  with  any  man 
or  men,  on  an  unfriendly  footing.  We  refuse  sym- 
pathy and  intimacy  with  people,  as  if  we  waited 
for  some  better  sympathy  and  intimacy  to  come. 


PRUDENCE, 


213 


But  whence  and  when  ? To-morrow  will  be  like 
to-day.  Life  wastes  itself  whilst  we  are  preparing 
to  live.  Our  friends  and  fellow-workeis  die  off 
from  us.  Scarcely  can  we  say  we  see  new  men, 
new  women,  approaching  us.  We  are  too  old  to 
regard  fashion,  too  old  to  expect  patronage  of  any 
greater,  or  more  powerful.  Let  us  suck  the  sweet- 
ness of  those  affections  and  consuetudes  that  grow 
near  us.  These  old  shoes  are  easy  to  the  feet. 
Undoubtedly,  we  can  easily  pick  faults  in  our  com- 
pany, can  easily  whisper  names  prouder,  and  that 
tickle  the  fancy  more.  Every  man’s  imagination 
hath  its  friends  ; and  pleasant  would  life  be  with 
such  companions.  But,  if  you  cannot  have  them 
on  good  mutual  terms,  you  cannot  have  them.  If 
not  the  Deity,  but  our  ambition  hews  and  shapes 
the  new  relations,  their  virtue  escapes,  as  straw- 
berries lose  their  flavor  in  garden-beds. 

Thus  truth,  frankness,  courage,  love,  humility, 
and  all  the  virtues  range  themselves  on  the  side  of 
prudence,  or  the  art  of  securing  a present  well-be- 
ing. I do  not  know  if  all  matter  will  be  found  to 
be  made  of  one  element,  as  oxygen  or  hydrogen, 
at  last,  but  the  world  of  manners  and  actions  is 
wrought  of  one  stuff,  and  begin  where  we  will,  we 
are  pretty  sure  in  a short  space,  to  be  mumbling 
our  ten  commandments. 


\ 


r.'7.v3^;  ^ 

' •:  -■■■/ 

' ' It. -ij: 


HEROISM. 


Paradise  is  under  the  shadow  of  swords.” 

Mahomet 


/ 


I 


HEROISM. 


In  the  elder  English  dramatists,  and  mainly  in 
the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  there  is  a 
constant  recognition  of  gentility,  as  if  a noble  be- 
havior were  as  easily  marked  in  the  society  of 
their  age,  as  color  is  in  our  American  population. 
When  any  Rodrigo,  Pedro,  or  Valerio  enters, 
though  he  be  a stranger,  the  duke  or  governor  ex- 
claims, This  is  a gentleman, — and  proffers  civil- 
ities without  end ; but  all  the  rest  are  slag  and  re- 
fuse. In  harmony  with  this  delight  in  personal 
advantages,  there  is  in  their  plays  a certain  heroic 
cast  of  character  and  dialogue, — as  in  Bonduca, 
Sophocles,  the  Mad  Lover,  the  Double  Marriage, 
— wherein  the  speaker  is  so  earnest  and  cordial, 
and  on  such  deep  grounds  of  character,  that  the 
dialogue,  on  the  slightest  additional  incident  in  the 
plot,  rises  naturally  into  poetry.  Among  many 
texts,  take  the  following.  The  Roman  Martius 
has  conquered  Athens, — all  but  the  invincible 
spirits  of  Sophocles,  the  duke  of  Athens,  and 
Dorigen,  his  wife.  The  beauty  of  the  latter  in- 
flames Martius,  and  he  seeks  to  save  her  husband; 

(217) 


2i8 


ESSAY  VI  I L 


but  Sophocles  will  not  ask  his  life,  although 
assured  that  a word  will  save  him,  and  the  execu- 
tion of  both  proceeds. 


Valerius,  Bid  thy  wife  farewell. 

Soph,  No,  I will  take  no  leave.  My  Dorigen, 
Yonder,  above,  ’bout  Ariadne’s  crown. 

My  spirit  shall  hover  for  thee.  Prithee,  haste. 

Dor,  Stay,  Sophocles, — with  this,  tie  up  my  sight; 
Let  not  soft  nature  so  transformed  be. 

And  lose  her  gentler  sexed  humanity, 

To  make  me  see  my  lord  bleed.  So,  ’t  is  well ; 

Never  one  object  underneath  the  sun 
Will  I behold  before  my  Sophocles : 

Farewell ; now  teach  the  Bomans  how  to  die. 

Mar,  Dost  know  what ’t  is  to  die  ? 

Soph,  Thou  dost  not,  Martins, 

And  therefore,  not  what 't  is  to  live  ; to  die 

Is  to  begin  to  live.  It  is  to  end 

An  old,  stale,  weary  work,  and  to  commence 

A newer,  and  a better.  ’T  is  to  leave 

Deceitful  knaves  for  the  society 

Of  gods  and  goodness.  Thou,  thyself,  must  part 

At  last,  from  all  thy  garlands,  pleasures,  triumphs, 

And  prove  thy  fortitude  what  then ’t  will  do. 

Val,  But  art  not  grieved  nor  vexed  to  leave  thy  life 
. thus  ? 

Soph,  Why  should  I grieve  or  vex  for  being  sent 
To  them  I ever  loved  best  ? Now  I’ll  kneel, 

But  with  my  back  toward  thee ; ’tis  the  last  duty 
This  trunk  can  do  the  gods. 

Mar,  Strike,  strike,  Valerius, 

Or  Martins’  heart  will  leap  out  at  his  mouth : 

This  is  a man,  a woman ! Kiss  thy  lord. 

And  live  with  all  the  freedom  you  were  wont. 

O love!  thou  doubly  hast  afflicted  me 

With  virtue  and  with  beauty.  Treacherous  heart. 

My  hand  shall  cast  thee  quick  into  my  urn, 

Ere  thou  transgress  this  knot  of  piety. 

Val,  What  ails  my  brother  ? 


HEROISM. 


219 


Sop/t.  Martins,  oh  Martins, 

Thon  now  hast  fonnd  a way  to  conqner  me. 

Bor.  O star  of  Rome ! what  gratitnde  can  speak 
Fit  words  to  follow  snch  a deed  as  this  ? 

Mar.  This  admirable  dnke,  Valerius, 

With  his  disdain  of  fortune  and  of  death, 

Captived  himself,  has  captivated  me. 

And  though  my  arm  hath  ta^en  his  body  here. 

His  sonl  hath  subjugated  Martins’  sonl. 

By  Romulns,  he  is  all  sonl,  I think; 

He  hath  no  flesh,  and  spirit  cannot  be  gyved ; 

Then  we  have  vanqnished  nothing;  he  is  free. 

And  Martins  walks  now  in  captivity. 

I do  not  readily  remember  any  poem,  play, 
sermon,  novel,  or  oration,  that  our  press  vents  in 
the  last  few  years,  which  goes  to  the  same  tune. 
We  have  a great  manj^-  flutes  and  flageolets,  but 
not  often  the  sound  of  any  fife.  Yet,  Words- 
worth’s Laodamia,  and  the  ode  of  “Dion,”  and 
some  sonnets,  have  a certain  noble  music  ; and 
Scott  will  sometimes  draw  a stroke  like  the  por- 
trait of  Lord  Evandale,  given  by  Balfour  of  Bur- 
ley. Thomas  Carlyle,  with  his  natural  taste  for 
what  is  manly  and  daring  in  character,  has  suffered 
no  heroic  trait  in  his  favorites  to  drop  from  his 
biographical  and  historical  pictures.  Earlier, 
Robert  Burns  has  given  us  a song  or  two.  In  the 
Harleian  Miscellanies,  there  is  an  account  of  the 
battle  of  Lutzen,  which  deserves  to  be  read. 
And  Simon  Ockley’s  History  of  the  Saracens,  re- 
counts the  prodigies  of  individual  valor  with  ad- 
miration, all  the  more  evident  on  the  part  of  the 
narrator,  that  he  seems' to  think  that  his  place  in 
Christian  Oxford  requires  of  him  some  proper 


220 


ESSAV  VIII. 


protestations  of  abhorrence.  But  if  we  explore 
the  literature  of  Heroism,  we  shall  quickly  come  to 
Plutarch,  who  is  its  Doctor  and  historian.  To 
him  we  owe  the  Brasidas,  the  Dion,  the  Epamin- 
ondas,  the  Scipio  of  old,  and  I must  think  we  are 
more  deeply  indebted  to  him  than  to  all  the 
ancient  writers.  Each  of  his  Lives  ” is  a refuta- 
tion to  the  despondency  and  cowardice  of  our 
religious  and  political  theorists.  A wild  courage, 
a stoicism  not  of  the  schools,  but  of  the  blood, 
shines  in  every  anecdote,  and  has  given  that  book 
its  immense  fame. 

We  need  books  of  this  tart  cathartic  virtue, 
more  than  books  of  political  science,  or  of  private 
economy.  Life  is  a festival  only  to  the  wise. 
Seen  from  the  nook  and  chimney-side  of  prudence, 
it  wears  a ragged  and  dangerous  front.  The  vio- 
lations of  the  laws  of  nature  by  our  predecessors 
and  our  contemporaries,  are  punished  in  us  also. 
The  disease  and  deformity  around  us,  certify  the 
infraction  of  natural,  intellectual,  and  moral  laws, 
and  often  violation  on  violation  to  breed  such 
compound  misery.  A lock-jaw,  that  bends  a 
man’s  head  back  to  his  heels,  hydrophobia,  that 
makes  him  bark  at  his  wife  and  babes,  insanity, 
that  makes  him  eat  grass;  war,  plague,  cholera, 
famine,  indicate  a certain  ferocity  in  nature,  which, 
as  it  had  its  inlet  by  human  crime,  must  have  its 
outlet  by  human  suffering.  Unhappily,  almost  no 
man  exists,  who  has  not  in  his  own  person,  be- 
come to  some  amount,  a stockholder  in  the  sin, 


HEROISM, 


221 


and  so  made  himself  liable  to  a share  in  the  expia- 
tion. 

Our  culture,  therefore,  must  not  omit  the  arm- 
ing of  the  man.  Let  him  hear  in  season,  that  he 
is  born  into  the  state  of  war,  and  that  the  com- 
monwealth and  his  own  well-being,  require  that 
he  should  not  go  dancing  in  the  weeds  of  peace, 
but  warned,  self-collected,  and  neither  defying  nor 
dreading  the  thunder,  let  him  take  both  reputa- 
tion and  life  in  his  hand,  and  with  perfect 
urbanity,  dare  the  gibbet  and  the  mob  by  the 
absolute  truth  of  his  speech,  and  the  rectitude  of 
his  behavior. 

Towards  all  this  external  evil,  the  man  within 
the  breast  assumes  a warlike  attitude,  and  affirms 
his  ability  to  cope  single-handed  with  the  infinite 
army  of  enemies.  To  this  military  attitude  of 
the  soul,  we  give  the  name  of  Heroism.  Its 
rudest  form  is  the  contempt  for  safety  and  ease, 
which  makes  the  attractiveness  of  war.  It  is  a 
self-trust  which  slights  the  restraints  of  prudence 
in  the  plentitude  of  its  energy  and  power  to  re- 
pair the  harms  it  may  suffer.  The  hero  is  a mind 
of  such  balance  that  no  disturbances  can  shake 
his  will,  but  pleasantly,  and,  as  it  were,  merrily, 
he  advances  to  his  own  music,  alike  in  frightful 
alarms,  and  in  the  tipsy  mirth  of  universal  dis- 
soluteness, There  is  somewhat  not  philosophical 
in  heroism ; there  is  somewhat  not  holy  in  it:  it 
seems  not  to  know  that  other  soul’s  are  of  one 
texture  with  it ; it  hath  pride ; it  is  the  extreme 
of  individual  nature.  Nevertheless,  we  must  pro- 


222 


ESSAY  VI  I L 


foundly  revere  it.  There  is  somewhat  in  great 
actions,  which  does  not  allow  us  to  go  behind 
them.  Heroism  feels  and  never  reasons,  and 
therefore  is  always  right,  and,  although  a different 
breeding,  different  religion,  and  greater  intellect- 
ual activity,  would  have  modified,  or  even 
reversed  the  particular  action,  yet  for  the  hero, 
that  thing  he  does,  is  the  highest  deed,  and  is  not 
open  to  the  censure  of  philosophers  or  divines. 
It  is  the  avowal  of  the  unschooled  man,  that  he 
finds  a quality  in  him  that  is  negligent  of  expense, 
of  health,  of  life,  of  danger,  of  hatred,  of  reproach, 
and  that  he  knows  that  his  will  is  higher  and 
more  excellent  than  all  actual  and  all  possible 
antagonists. 

Heroism  works  in  contradiction  to  the  voice  of 
mankind,  and  in  contradiction,  for  a time,  to 
the  voice  of  the  great  and  good.  Heroism  is  an 
obedience  to  a secret  impulse  of  an  individual’s 
character.  Now  to  no  other  man  can  its  wisdom 
appear  as  it  does  to  him,  for  every  man  must  be 
suj)posed  to  see  a little  farther  on  his  own  proper 
path,  than  any  one  else.  Therefore,  just  and  wise 
men  take  umbrage  at  his  act,  until  after  some  little 
time  be  past ; then,  they  see  it  to  be  in  unison 
with  their  acts.  All  prudent  men  see  that  the 
action  is  clean  contrary  to  a sensual  prosperity ; 
for  every  heroic  act  measures  itself  by  its  con- 
tempt of  some  external  good.  But  it  finds  its 
own  success  at  last,  and  then  the  prudent  also 
extol. 

Self-trust  is  the  essence  of  heroism.  It  is  the 


HEROISM, 


223 


state  of  the  soul  at  war,  and  its  ultimate  objects 
are  the  last  defiance  of  falsehood  and  wroug,  and 
the  power  to  bear  all  that  can  be  inflicted  b}^  evil 
agents.  It  speaks  the  truth,  and  it  is  just.  It  is 
generous,  hospitable,  temperate,  scornful  of  petty 
calculations,  and  scornful  of  being  scorned.  It 
persists;  it  is  of  an  undaunted  boldness,  and  of 
a fortitude  not  to  be  wearied  out.  Its  jest  is  the  lit- 
tleness of  common  life.  That  false  prudence 
which  dotes  on  health  and  wealth,  is  the  foil,  the 
butt  and  merriment  of  heroism.  Heroism,  like 
Plotinus,  is  almost  ashamed  of  its  body.  What  shall 
it  say,  then,  to  the  sugar-plums,  and  cats’-cradles, 
to  the  toilet,  compliments,  quarrels,  cards,  and 
custard,  which  rack  the  wit  of  all  human  society. 
What  joys  has  kind  nature  provided  for  us  dear 
creatures ! There  seems  to  be  no  interval  be- 
tween greatness  and  meanness.  When  the  spirit 
is  not  master  of  the  world,  then  is  it  its  dupe. 
Yet  the  little  man  takes  the  great  hoax  so  inno- 
cently, works  in  it  so  headlong  and  believing,  is 
born  red,  and  dies  gray,  arranging  his  toilet,  at- 
tending on  his  own  health,  laying  traps  for  sweet 
food  and  strong  wine,  setting  his  heart  on  a horse 
or  a rifle,  made  happy  with  a little  gossip,  or  a little 
praise,  that  the  great  soul  cannot  choose  but  laugh 
at  such  earnest  nonsense.  “ Indeed,  these  humble 
considerations  make  me  out  of  love  with  great- 
ness. What  a disgrace  is  it  to  me  to  take  note 
how  many  pairs  of  silk  stockings  thou  hast,  namely, 
these  and  those  that  were  the  peach-colored  ones, 


224 


ESSAV  VI  I L 


or  to  bear  the  inventory  of  thy  shirts,  as  one  for 
superfluity,  and  one  other  for  use/’ 

Citizens,  thinking  after  the  laws  of  arithmetic, 
consider  the  inconvenience  of  receiving  strangers 
at  their  fireside,  reckon  narrowly  the  loss  of  time 
and  the  unusual  display;  the  soul  of  a better 
quality  thrusts  back  the  unseasonable  economy 
into  the  vaults  of  life,  and  says,  I will  obey  the 
God,  and  the  sacrifice  and  the  fire  he  will  provide. 
Ibn  Hankal,  the  Arabian  geographer,  describes  a 
heroic  extreme  in  the  hospitality  of  Sogd,  in  Buk- 
haria.  When  I was  in  Sogd,  I saw  a great  build- 
ing, like  a palace,  the  gates  of  which  were  open 
and  fixed  back  to  the  wall  with  large  nails.  I 
asked  the  reason,  and  was  told  that  the  house  had 
not  been  shut  night  or  day,  for  a hundred  years. 
Strangers  may  present  themselves  at  any  hour, 
and  in  whatever  number;  the  master  has  amply 
provided  for  the  reception  of  the  men  and  their 
animals,  and  is  never  happier  than  when  they  tarry 
for  some  time.  Nothing  of  the  kind  have  I seen 
in  any  other  country.”  The  magnanimous  know 
very  well  that  they  who  give  time,  or  money,  or 
shelter,  to  the  stranger — so  it  be  done  for  love, 
and  not  for  ostentation — do,  as  it  were,  put  God 
under  obligation  to  them,  so  perfect  are  the  com- 
pensations of  the  universe.  In  some  way,  the 
time  they  seem  to  lose,  is  redeemed,  and  the  pains 
they  seem  to  take,  remunerate  themselves.  These 
men  fan  the  flame  of  human  love  and  raise  the 
standard  of  civil  virtue  among  mankind.  But 
hospitality  must  be  for  service,  and  not  for  show, 


HEROISM, 


225 


or  it  pulls  down  the  host.  The  brave  soul  rates 
itself  too  high  to  value  itself  hy  the  splendor  of 
its  table  and  draperies.  It  gives  what  it  hath, 
and  all  it  hath,  but  its  own  majesty  can  lend  a 
better  grace  to  bannocks  and  fair  water,  than 
belong  to  city  feasts. 

The  temperance  of  the  hero  proceeds  from  the 
same  wish  to  do  no  dishonor  to  the  worthiness  he 
has.  But  he  loves  it  for  its  elegancy,  not  for  its 
austerity.  It  seems  not  worth  his  while  to  be 
solemn,  and  denounce  with  bitterness  flesh-eating, 
or  wine-drinking,  the  use  of  tobacco,  or  opium,  or 
tea,  or  silk,  or  gold.  A great  man  scarcely  knows 
how  he  dines,  how  he  dresses,  but  without  railing 
or  precision,  his  living  is  natural  and  poetic.  John 
Eliot,  the  Indian  Apostle,  drank  water,  and  said 
of  wine,  It  is  a noble,  generous  liquor,  and  we 
should  be  humbly  thankful  for  it,  but,  as  I remem- 
ber, water  was  made  before  it.”  Better  still,  is  the 
temperance  of  king  David,  who  poured  out  on  the 
ground  unto  the  Lord,  the  water  which  three  of 
his  warriors  had  brought  him  to  drink,  at  the  peril 
of  their  lives. 

It  is  told  of  Brutus,  that  when  he  fell  on  his 
sword,  after  the  battle  of  Philippi,  he  quoted  a 
line  of  Euripides,  ‘‘  O virtue,  I have  followed  thee 
through  life,  and  I find  thee  at  last  but  a shade.” 
I doubt  not  the  hero  is  slandered  by  this  report* 
The  heroic  soul  does  not  sell  its  justice  and  its 
nobleness.  It  does  not  ask  to  dine  nicely,  and  to 
sleep  warm.  The  essence  of  greatness  is  the  per- 
ception that  virtue  is  enough.  Poverty  is  its  orna- 
15 


226 


ESSAY  VIII, 


ment.  Plenty,  it  does  not  need,  and  can  very  well 
abide  its  loss. 

But  that  which  takes  my  fancy  most,  in  the 
heroic  class,  is  the  good  humor  and  hilarity  they 
exhibit.  It  is  a height  to  which  common  duty 
can  very  well  attain,  to  suffer  and  to  dare  with 
solemnity.  But  these  rare  souls  set  opinion,  suc- 
cess, and  life,  at  so  cheap  a rate,  that  they  will 
not  soothe  their  enemies  by  petitions,  or  the  show 
of  sorrow,  but  wear  their  own  habitual  greatness. 
Scipio,  charged  with  peculation,  refuses  to  do  him- 
self so  great  a disgrace,  as  to  wait  for  justification, 
though  he  had  the  scroll  of  his  accounts  in  his 
hands,  but  tears  it  to  pieces  before  the  tribunes. 
Socrates’  condemnation  of  himself  to  be  main- 
tained in  all  honor  in  the  Prytaneum,  during  his 
life,  and  Sir  Thomas  More’s  playfulness  at  the 
scaffold,  are  of  the  same  strain.  In  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher’s Sea  Voyage,”  Juletta  tells  the  stout 
captain  and  his  company, 

Jill.  Why,  slaves,  ’t  is  in  our  power  to  hang  ye. 

Master,  Very  likely, 

’T  is  in  our  powers,  then,  to  be  hanged, "and  scorn  ye. 

These  replies  are  sound  and  whole.  Sport  is  the 
bloom  and  glow  of  a perfect  health.  The  great 
will  not  condescend  to  take  any  thing  seriously  ; 
all  must  be  as  gay  as  the  song  of  a canary,  though 
it  were  the  building  of  cities  or  the  eradication  of 
old  and  foolish  churches  and  nations,  which  have 
cumbered  the  earth  long  thousands  of  years. 
Simple  hearts  put  all  the  history  and  customs  of 


HEROISM. 


227 


this  world  behind  them,  and  play  their  own  play 
in  innocent  defiance  of  the  Blue-Laws  of  the 
world ; and  such  would  appear,  could  we  see  the 
human  race  assembled  in  vision,  like  little  chil- 
dren frolicking  together,  though,  to  the  eyes  of 
mankind  at  large,  they  wear  a stately  and  solemn 
garb  of  works  and  influences. 

The  interest  these  fine  stories  have  for  us,  the 
power  of  a romance  over  the  boy  who  grasps  the 
forbidden  book  under  his  bench  at  school,  our 
delight  in  the  hero,  is  the  main  fact  to  our  pur- 
pose. All  these  great  and  transcendent  properties 
are  ours.  If  we  dilate  in  beholding  the  Greek 
energy,  the  Roman  pride,  it  is  that  we  are  already 
domesticating  the  same  sentiment.  Let  us  find 
room  for  this  great  guest  in  our  small  houses. 
The  first  step  of  worthiness  will  be  to  disabuse  us 
of  our  superstitious  associations  with  places  and 
times,  with  number  and  size.  Why  should  these 
words,  Athenian,  Roman,  Asia,  and  England,  so 
tingle  in  the  ear?  Let  us  feel  that  where  the 
heart  is,  there  the  muses,  there  the  gods  sojourn, 
and  not  in  any  geography  of  fame.  Massachu- 
setts, Connecticut  River,  and  Boston  Bay,  you 
think  paltry  places,  and  the  ear  loves  names  of  for- 
eign and  classic  topography.  But  here  we  are ; — 
that  is  a great  fact,  and,  if  we  will  tarry  a little, 
we  may  come  to  learn  that  here  is  best.  See  to  it, 
only  that  thyself  is  here  ; — and  art  and  nature, 
hope  and  dread,  friends,  angels,  and  the  Supreme 
Being,  shall  not  be  absent  from  the  chamber 
where  thou  sittest.  Epaminondas,  brave  and 


228 


ESSAY  VIII. 


affectionate,  does  not  seem  to  us  to  need  Olympus 
to  die  upon,  nor  the  Syrian  sunsliine.  He  lies 
very  well  where  he  is.  The  Jerseys  were  hand- 
some ground  enough  for  Washington  to  tread,  and 
London  streets  for  the  feet  of  Milton.  A great 
man  illustrates  his  place,  makes  his  climate  genial 
in  the  imagination  of  men,  and  its  air  the  beloved 
element  of  all  delicate  spirits.  That  country  is 
the  fairest,  which  is  inhabited  by  the  noblest 
minds.  The  pictures  which  fill  the  imagination  in 
reading  the  actions  of  Pericles,  Xenophon,  Colum- 
bus, Bayard,  Sidney,  Hampden,  teach  us  how 
needlessly  mean  our  life  is,  that  w’e,  by  the  depth 
of  our  living,  should  deck  it  with  more  than  regal 
or  national  splendor,  and  act  on  principles  that 
should  interest  man  and  nature  in  the  length  of 
our  days. 

We  have  seen  or  heard  of  many  extraordinary 
young  men,  who  never  ripened,  or  whose  perform- 
ance in  actual  life,  was  not  extraordinary.  When 
we  see  their  air  and  mien,  when  we  hear  them 
speak  of  society,  of  books,  of  religion,  we  admire 
their  superiority;  they  seem  to  throw  contempt  on 
the  whole  state  of  the  world ; theirs  is  the  tone 
of  a youthful  giant,  who  is  sent  to  work  revolu- 
tions. But  they  enter  an  active  profession,  and 
the  forming  Colossus  shrinks  to  the  common  size 
of  man.  The  magic  they  used,  was  the  ideal 
tendencies,  which  always  make  the  Actual  ridicu- 
lous; but  the  tough  world  had  its  revenge  the 
moment  they  put  their  horses  of  the  sun  to  plough 
in  its  furrow.  They  found  no  example  and  no 


HEROISM. 


229 


companion,  and  their  heart  fainted.  What  then? 
The  lesson  they  gave  in  their  first  aspirations,  is 
yet  true,  and  a better  valor,  and  a purer  truth, 
shall  one  day  execute  their  will,  and  put  the 
world  to  shame.  Or  why  should  a woman  liken 
herself  to  any  historical  woman,  and  think,  be- 
cause Sappho,  or  Scvignt?,  or  De  Stael,  or  the 
cloistered  souls  who  have  had  genius  and  cultiva- 
tion, do  not  satisfy  the  imagination,  and  the  serene 
Themis,  none  can, — certainly  not  she.  Why  not? 
She  has  a new  and  unattempted  problem  to  solve, 
perchance  that  of  the  happiest  nature  that  ever 
bloomed.  Let  the  maiden,  with  erect  soul,  walk 
serenely  on  her  way,  accept  the  hint  of  each  new 
experience,  try,  in  turn,  all  the  gifts  God  offers 
her,  that  she  may  learn  the  power  and  the  charm, 
that  like  a new  dawn  radiating  out  of  the  deep  of 
space,  her  new-born  being  is.  The  fair  girl,  who 
repels  interference  by  a decided  and  proud  choice 
of  influences,  so  careless  of  pleasing,  so  wilful 
and  lofty,  inspires  every  beholder  with  somewhat 
of  her  own  nobleness.  The  silent  heart  encour- 
ages her  ; O friend,  never  strike  sail  to  a fear. 
Come  into  port  greatly,  or  sail  with  God  the  seas. 
Not  in  vain  you  live,  for  every  passing  eye  is 
cheered  and  refined  by  the  vision. 

The  characteristic  of  a genuine  heroism  is  its 
persistency.  All  men  have  wandering  impulses, 
fits  and  starts  of  generosity.  But  when  you 
have  resolved  to  be  great,  abide  by  yourself,  and  do 
not  weakly  try  to  reconcile  yourself  with  the 
world.  The  heroic  cannot  be  the  common,  nor 


230 


ESSAY  VII  L 


the  common  the  heroic.  Yet  we  have  the  weak- 
ness to  expect  the  sympathy  of  people  in  those 
actions  whose  excellence  is  that  they  outrun  sym- 
pathy, and  appeal  to  a tardy  justice.  If  you 
would  serve  your  brother,  because  it  is  fit  for  you 
to  serve  him,  do  not  take  back  your  words  when 
you  find  that  prudent  people  do  not  commend 
you.  Be  true  to  your  own  act,  and  congratulate 
yourself  if  you  have  done  something  strange  and 
extravagant,  and  broken  the  monotony  of  a de- 
corous age.  It  was  a high  counsel  that  I once 
heard  given  to  a young  person,  ‘‘Always  do  what 
you  are  afraid  to  do.”  A simple  manly  character 
need  never  make  an  apology,  but  should  regard 
its  past  action  with  the  calmness  of  Phocion, 
when  he  admitted  that  the  event  of  the  battle 
was  happy,  yet  did  not  regret  his  dissuasion  from 
the  battle. 

There  is  no  weakness  or  exposure  for  which  we 
cannot  find  consolation  in  the  thought, — this  is  a 
part  of  my  constitution,  part  of  my  relation  and 
office  to  my  fellow-creature.  Has  nature  coven- 
anted with  me  that  I should  never  appear  to  dis- 
advantage, never  make  a ridiculous  figure  ? Let 
us  be  generous  of  our  dignity,  as  well  as  of  our 
money.  Greatness  once  and  forever  has  done 
with  opinion.  We  tell  our  charities,  not  because 
we  wish  to  be  praised  for  them,  not  because  we 
think  they  have  great  merit,  but  for  our  justifica- 
tion. It  is  a capital  blunder;  as  you  discover, 
when  another  man  recites  his  charities. 

To  speak  the  truth,  even  with  some  austerity, 


HEROISM, 


231 


to  live  with  some  rigor  of  temperance,  or  some 
extremes  of  generosity,  seems  to  be  an  asceticism 
which  common  good  nature  would  appoint  to 
those  who  are  at  ease  and  in  plenty,  in  sign  that 
they  feel  a brotherhood  with  the  great  multitude 
of  suffering  men.  And  not  only  need  we  breathe 
and  exercise  the  soul  by  assuming  the  penalties  of 
abstinence,  of  debt,  of  solitude,  of  unpopularity, 
but  it  behooves  the  wise  man  to  look  with  a bold 
eye  into  those  rarer  dangers  which  sometimes  in- 
vade men,  and  to  familiarize  himself  with  disgust- 
ing forms  of  disease,  with  sounds  of  execration, 
and  the  vision  of  violent  death. 

Times  of  heroism  are  generally  times  of  terror, 
but  the  day  never  shines,  in  which  this  element 
may  not  work.  The  circumstances  of  man,  we 
say,  are  historically  somewhat  better  in  this  coun- 
try, and  at  this  hour,  than  perhaps  ever  before. 
More  freedom  exists  for  culture.  It  will  not  now 
run  against  an  axe,  at  the  first  step  out  of  the 
beaten  track  of  opinion.  But  whoso  is  heroic, 
will  always  find  crises  to  try  his  edge.  Human 
virtue  demands  her  champions  and  martyrs,  and 
the  trial  of  persecution  always  proceeds.  It  is 
but  the  other  day,  that  the  brave  Lovejoy  gave 
his  breast  to  the  bullets  of  a mob,  for  the  rights 
of  free  speech  and  opinion,  and  died  when  it  was 
better  not  to  live. 

I see  not  any  road  of  perfect  peace,  which  a 
man  can  walk  but  to  take  counsel  of  his  own 
bosom.  Let  him  quit  too  much  association,  let 
him  go  home  much,  and  establish  himself  in  those 


232 


ESSAY  VIII. 


courses  he  approves.  The  unremitting  retention 
of  simple  and  high  sentiments  in  obscure  duties, 
is  hardening  the  character  to  that  temper  which 
will  work  with  honor,  if  need  be,  in  the  tumult, 
or  on  the  scaffold.  Whatever  outrages  have  hap- 
pened to  men,  may  befall  a man  again : and  very 
easily  in  a republic,  if  there  appear  any  signs  of  a 
decay  of  religion.  Coarse  slander,  fire,  tar  and 
feathers,  and  the  gibbet,  the  youth  may  freely 
bring  home  to  his  mind,  and  with  what  sweetness 
of  temper  he  can,  and  inquire  how  fast  he  can  fix 
his  sense  of  duty,  braving  such  penalties,  when- 
ever it  may  please  the  next  newspaper,  and  a suffi- 
cient number  of  his  neighbors  to  pronounce  his 
opinions  incendiar3^ 

It  may  calm  the  apprehension  of  calamity  in 
the  most  susceptible  heart,  to  see  how  quick  a 
bound  nature  has  set  to  the  utmost  infliction  of 
malice.  We  rapidly  approach  a brink  over  which 
no  enemy  can  follow  us. 

“ Let  them  rave : 

Thou  art  quiet  in  thy  grave.*' 

In  the  gloom  of  our  ignorance  of  what  shall  be, 
in  the  hour  when  we  are  deaf  to  the  higher  voices, 
who  does  not  envy  them  who  have  seen  safely  to 
an  end  their  manful  endeavor?  Who  that  sees 
the  meanness  of  our  politics,  but  inly  congratu- 
lates Washington,  that  he  is  long  already  wrapped 
in  his  shroud,  and  forever  safe  ; that  he  was  laid 
sweet  in  his  grave,  the  hope  of  humanity  not  yet 
subjugated  in  him?  Who  does  not  sometimes 


HEROISM, 


233 


envy  the  good  and  brave,  who  are  no  more  to  suf- 
fer from  the  tumults  of  the  natural  world,  and 
await  with  curious  complacency  the  speedy  term 
of  his  own  conversation  with  finite  nature  ? And 
yet  the  love  that  will  be  annihilated  sooner  than 
treacherous,  has  already  made  death  impossible, 
and  affirms  itself  no  mortal,  but  a native  of  the 
deeps  of  absolute  and  inextinguishable  being. 


. . ' ''' 


THE  OVER-SOUL. 


*‘But  souls  that  of  his  own  good  life  partake, 

He  loves  as  his  own  self ; dear  as  his  eye 
They  are  to  Him  : He’ll  never  them  forsake : 
When  they  shall  die,  then  God  himself  shall  die: 
They  live,  they  live  in  blest  eternity.” 

Henry  More. 


THE  OVER-SOUL. 

Theee  is  a difference  between  one  and  another 
hour  of  life,  in  their  authority  and  subsequent 
effect.  Our  faith  comes  in  moments;  our  vice  is 
habitual.  Yet  is  there  a depth  in  those  brief  mo- 
ments, which  constrains  us  to  ascribe  more  reality 
to  them  than  to  all  other  experiences.  For  this 
reason,  the  argument,  which  is  always  forthcom- 
ing to  silence  those  who  conceive  extraordinary 
hopes  of  man,  namely,  the  appeal  to  experience, 
is  forever  invalid  and  vain.  A mightier  hope 
abolishes  despair.  We  give  up  the  past  to  the 
objector,  and  yet  we  hope.  He  must  explain  this 
hope.  We  grant  that  human  life  is  mean;  but 
how  did  we  find  out  that  it  was  mean?  What  is 
the  ground  of  this  uneasiness  of  ours ; of  this  old 
discontent?  What  is  the  universal  sense  of  want 
and  ignorance,  but  the  fine  inuendo  by  which  the 
great  soul  makes  its  enormous  claim  ? Why  do 
men  feel  that  the  natural  history  of  man  has  never 
been  written,  but  always  he  is  leaving  behind 
what  you  have  said  of  him,  and  it  becomes  old, 
and  books  of  metaphysics  worthless?  The  phi- 
losophy of  six  thousand  years  has  not  searched  the 
chambers  and  magazines  of  the  soul.  In  its  ex- 

(237) 


238 


ESSAY  IX. 


periments  there  has  always  remained,  in  the  last 
analysis,  a residuum  it  could  not  resolve.  Man  is 
a stream  whose  source  is  hidden.  Always  our 
being  is  descending  into  us  from  we  know  not 
whence.  The  most  exact  calculator  has  no  pre- 
science that  somewhat  incalculable  may  not  baulk 
the  very  next  moment.  I am  constrained  every 
moment  to  acknowledge  a higher  origin  for  events 
than  the  will  I call  mine. 

As  with  events,  so  is  it  with  thoughts.  When 
I watch  that  flowing  river,  which,  out  of  regions 
I see  not,  pours  for  a season  its  streams  into  me, 
— I see  that  I am  a pensioner, — not  a cause,  but  a 
surprised  spectator  of  this  ethereal  water ; that  I 
desire  and  look  up,  and  put  myself  in  the  attitude 
of  reception,  but  from  some  alien  energy  the 
visions  come. 

The  Supreme  Critic  on  all  the  errors  of  the  past 
and  the  present,  and  the  only  prophet  of  that 
which  must  be,  is  that  great  nature  in  which  we 
rest,  as  the  earth  lies  in  the  soft  arms  of  the  at-, 
mosphere ; that  Unity,  that  Over-Soul,  within 
which  every  man’s  particular  being  is  contained 
and  made  one  with  all  other  ; that  common  heart, 
of  which  all  sincere  conversation  is  the  worship, 
to  which  all  right  action  is  submission ; that  over- 
powering reality  which  confutes  our  tricks  and 
talents,  and  constrains  every  one  to  pass  for  what 
he  is,  and  to  speak  from  his  character  and  not 
from  his  tongue ; and  which  evermore  tends  and 
aims  to  pass  into  our  thought  and  hand,  and  be- 
come wisdom,  and  virtue,  and  power,  and  beauty. 


THE  OVER-SOUL, 


239 


We  live  in  succession,  in  division,  in  parts,  in  par- 
ticles. Meantime  within  man  is  the  soul  of  the 
whole ; the  wise  silence  ; the  universal  beauty,  to 
which  every  part  and  particle  is  equally  related: 
the  eternal  One.  And  this  deep  power  in  which 
we  exist,  and  whose  beatitude  is  all  accessible  to 
us,  is  not  only  self-sufficing  and  perfect  in  every 
hour,  but  the  act  of  seeing,  and  the  thing  seen,  the 
seer  and  the  spectacle,  the  subject  and  the  object, 
are  one.  We  see  the  world  piece  by  piece,  as  tlie 
sun,  the  moon,  the  animal,  the  tree ; but  the 
whole,  of  which  these  are  the  shining  parts,  is  the 
soul.  It  is  only  by  the  vision  of  that  Wisdom, 
that  the  horoscope  of  the  ages  can  be  read,  and  it 
is  onl}"  by  falling  back  on  our  better  thoughts,  by 
yielding  to  the  spirit  of  prophecy  which  is  innate 
in  every  man,  that  we  can  know  what  it  saith. 
Every  man’s  words,  who  speaks  from  that  life, 
must  sound  vain  to  those  who  do  not  dwell  in  the 
same  thought  on  their  own  part.  I dare  not  speak 
for  it.  My  words  do  not  carry  its  august  sense ; 
they  fall  short  and  cold.  Only  itself  can  inspire 
whom  it  will,  and  behold!  their  speech  shall  be 
lyrical,  and  sweet,  and  universal  as  the  rising  of 
the  wind.  Yet  I desire,  even  by  profane  words, 
if  sacred  I may  not  use,  to  indicate  the  heaven  of 
this  deity,  and  to  report  what  hints  I have  col- 
lected of  the  transcendent  simplicity  and  energy 
of  the  Highest  Law. 

If  we  consider  what  happens  in  conversation, 
in  reveries,  in  remorse,  in  times  of  passion,  in  sur- 
prises, in  the  instructions  of  dreams  wherein  often 


240 


ESS  A V IX. 


we  see  ourselves  in  masquerade, — ^the  droll  dis- 
guises only  magnifying  and  enhancing  a real  ele- 
ment, and  forcing  it  on  our  distinct  notice, — we 
shall  catch  many  hints  that  will  broaden  and 
lighten  into  knowledge  of  the  secret  of  nature.  All 
f"  goes  to  show  that  the  soul  in  man  is  not  an  organ, 
but  animates  and  exercises  all  the  organs ; is  not  a 
function,  like  the  power  of  memory,  of  calculation, 
of  comparison, — but  uses  these  as  hands  and  feet ; 
is  not  a faculty,  but  a light ; is  not  the  intellect  or 
the  will,  but  the  master  of  the  intellect  and  the 
will ; — is  the  vast  back-ground  of  our  being,  in 
which  they  lie, — an  immensity  not  possessed  and 
that  cannot  be  possessed.  From  within  or  from 
behind,  a light  shines  through  us  upon  things, 
and  makes  us  aware  that  we  are  nothing,  but  the 
light  is  all.  A man  is  the  facade  of  a temple 
wherein  all  wisdom  and  all  good  abide.  What 
we  commonly  call  man,  the  eating,  drinking, 
planting,  counting  man,  does  not,  as  we  know 
him,  represent  himself,  but  misrepresents  himself. 
Him  we  do  not  respect,  but  the  soul,  whose  organ 
he  is,  would  he  let  it  appear  through  his  action, 
would  make  our  knees  bend.  When  it  breathes 
through  his  intellect,  it  is  genius ; when  it 
breathes  through  his  will,  it  is  virtue ; when  it 
flows  through  his  affection,  it  is  love.  And 
the  blindness  of  the  intellect  begins,  when  it 
would  be  something  of  itself.  The  weakness  of 
the  will  begins  when  the  individual  would  be 
something  of  himself.  All  reform  aims,  in  some 
one  particular,  to  let  the  great  soul  have  its  way 


THE  OVE E-SOUL. 


241 


through  us;  in  other  words,  to  engage  us  to 
obey. 

Of  this  pure  nature  every  man  is  at  some  time 
sensible.  Language  cannot  paint  it  with  his  col- 
ors. It  is  too  subtle.  It  is  undefinable,  unmeas- 
urable, but  we  know  that  it  pervades  and  con- 
tains us.  We  know  that  all  spiritual  being  is  in 
man.  A wise  old  proverb  says,  ‘‘  God  comes  to 
see  us  without  bell : ” that  is,  as  there  is  no  screen 
or  ceiling  between  our  heads  and  the  infinite 
heavens,  so  is  there  no  bar  or  wall  in  the  soul 
where  man,  the  effect,  ceases,  and  God,  the  cause, 
begins.  The  walls  are  taken  away.  We  lie  open 
on  one  side  to  the  deeps  of  spiritual  nature,  to  all 
the  attributes  of  God.  Justice  we  see  and  know, 
Love.  Freedom,  Power.  These  natures  no  man 
ever  got  above,  but  always  they  tower  over  us, 
and  most  in  the  moment  when  our  interests  tempt 
us  to  wound  them. 

The  sovereignty  of  this  nature  whereof  we 
speak,  is  made  known  by  its  independency  of 
those  limitations  which  circumscribe  us  on  every 
hand.  The  soul  circumscribeth  all  things.  As 
I have  said,  it  contradicts  all  experience.  In  like 
manner  it  abolishes  time  and  space.  The  influ- 
ence of  the  senses  has,  in  most  men,  overpowered 
the  mind  to  that  degree,  that  the  walls  of  time 
and  space  have  come  to  look  solid,  real  and  in- 
surmountable ; and  to  speak  with  levity  of  these 
limits,  is,  in  the  world,  the  sign  of  insanit3\  Yet 
time  and  space  are  but  inverse  measures  of  the 
16 


242 


ESS  A Y IX. 


force  of  the  soul.  A man  is  capable  of  abolishing 
them  both.  The  spirit  sports  with  time — 


‘‘  Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour. 

Or  stretch  an  hour  to  eternity.” 

We  are  often  made  to  feel  that  there  is  another 
youth  and  age  than  that  which  is  measured  from 
the  year  of  our  natural  birth.  Some  thoughts 
. always  find  us  young  and  keep  us  so.  Such  a 
\ / thought  is  the  love  of  the  universal  and  eternal 
^ beauty.  Every  man  parts  from  that  contempla- 
tion with  the  feeling  that  it  rather  belongs  to 
ages  than  to  mortal  life.  The  least  activity  of  the 
intellectual  powers  redeems  us  in  a degree  from 
the  influences  of  time.  In  sickness,  in  languor, 
give  us  a strain  of  poetrj"  or  a profound  sentence, 
and  we  are  refreshed;  or  produce  a volume  of 
Plato,  or  Shakespeare,  or  remind  us  of  their  names, 
and  instantly  we  come  into  a feeling  of  longevity. 
See  how  the  deep,  divine  thought  demolishes  cen- 
turies and  millenniums,  and  makes  itself  present 
through  all  ages.  Is  the  teaching  of  Christ  less 
effective  now  than  it  was  when  first  his  mouth 
was  opened?  The  emphasis  of  facts  and  persons 
to  my  soul  has  nothing  to  do  with  time.  And  so, 
always,  the  soul’s  scale  is  one  ; the  scale  of  the 
senses  and  the  understanding  is  another.  Before 
the  great  revelations  of  the  soul.  Time,  Space 
and  Nature  shrink  away.  In  common  speech,  we 
refer  all  things  to  time,  as  we  habitually  refer  the 
immensely  sundered  stars  to  one  concave  sphere. 
And  so  we  say  that  the  Judgment  is  distant  or 


THE  OVER-SOUE 


243 


near,  that  the  Millermium  approaches,  that  a day 
of  certain  political,  moral,  social  reforms  is  at 
hand,  and  the  like,  when  we  mean,  that  in  the 
nature  of  things,  one  of  the  facts  we  contemplate 
is  external  and  fugitive,  and  the  other  is  perma- 
nent and  connate  with  the  soul.  The  things  we 
now  esteem  fixed,  shall,  one  by  one,  detach  them- 
selves, like  ripe  fruit,  from  our  experience,  and 
fall.  The  wind  shall  blow  them  none  knows 
whither.  The  landscape,  the  figures,  Boston, 
London,  are  facts  as  fugitive  as  any  institution 
past,  or  any  whiff  of  mist  or  smoke,  and  so  is  so- 
ciety, and  so  is  the  world.  The  soul  looketh  stead- 
ily forwards,  creating  a world  alway  before  her, 
and  leaving  worlds  alway  behind  her.  She  has 
no  dates,  nor  rites,  nor  persons,  nor  specialties, 
nor  men.  The  soul  knows  only  the  soul.  All 
else  is  idle  weeds  for  her  wearing. 

After  its  own  law  and  not  by  arithmetic  is  the 
rate  of  its  progress  to  be  computed.  The  soul’s 
advances  are  not  made  by  gradation,  such  as  can 
be  represented  b}"  motion  in  a straight  line ; but 
rather  by  ascension  of  state,  such  as  can  be  repre- 
sented by  metamorphosis, — from  the  egg  to  the 
worm,  from  the  worm  to  the  fly.  The  growths  of 
genius  are  of  a certain  total  character,  that  does 
not  advance  the  elect  individual  first  over  John, 
then  Adam,  then  Richard,  and  give  to  each  the 
pain  of  discovered  inferiority,  but  by  every  throe 
of  growth,  the  man  expands  there  where  he 
works,  passing,  at  each  pulsation,  classes,  popula- 
tions of  men.  With  each  divine  impulse  the  mind 


244 


ESS  A Y IX, 


rends  the  thin  rinds  of  the  visible  and  finite,  and 
comes  out  into  eternity,  and  inspires  and  expires 
its  air.  It  converses  with  truths  that  have  always 
been  spoken  in  the  world,  and  becomes  conscious 
of  a closer  sympathy  with  Zeno  and  Arrian,  than 
with  persons  in  the  house. 

This  is  the  law  of  moral  and  of  mental  gain.  The 
simple  rise  as  by  specific  levity,  not  into  a particu- 
lar virtue,  but  into  the  region  of  all  the  virtues. 
They  are  in  the  spirit  which  contains  them  all. 
The  soul  is  superior  to  all  the  particulars  of 
merit.  The  soul  requires  purit}^  but  purity  is 
not  it;  requires  justice,  but  justice  is  not  that; 
requires  beneficence,  but  is  somewhat  better : so 
that  there  is  a kind  of  descent  and  accommoda- 
tion felt  when  we  leave  speaking  of  moral  nature, 
to  urge  a virtue  which  it  enjoins.  For,  to  the 
soul  in  her  pure  action,  all  the  virtues  are  nat- 
ural, and  not  painfully  acquired.  Speak  to  his 
heart,  and  the  man  becomes  suddenly  virtuous. 

Within  the  same  sentiment  is  the  germ  of  in- 
tellectual growth,  which  obeys  the  same  law. 
Those  who  are  capable  of  humility,  of  justice, 
of  love,  of  aspiration,  are  already  on  a platform 
that  commands  the  sciences  and  arts,  speech  and 
poetry,  action  and  grace.  For  whoso  dwells  in 
this  mortal  beatitude,  does  already  anticipate 
those  special  powers  which  men  prize  so  highly ; just 
as  love  does  justice  to'  all  the  gifts  of  the  object 
beloved.  The  lover  has  no  talent,  no  skill,  which 
passes  for  quite  nothing  with  his  enamored  maiden, 
however  little  she  may  possess  of  related  faculty. 


THE  OVEESOUE 


245 


And  the  heart,  which  abandons  itself  to  the  Su- 
preme Mind,  finds  itself  related  to  all  its  works 
and  will  travel  a royal  road  to  particular  knowl- 
edges and  powers.  For,  in  ascending  to  this  pri- 
mary and  aboriginal  sentiment,  we  have  come 
from  our  remote  station  on  the  circumference  in- 
stantaneously to  the  centre  of  the  world,  where, 
as  in  the  closet  of  God,  we  see  causes,  and  antici- 
pate the  universe,  which  is  but  a slow  effect. 

, One  mode  of  the  divine  teaching  is  the  incarna- 
tion of  the  spirit  in  a form, — in  forms,  like  my 
own.  I live  in  society ; with  persons  who  answer 
to  thoughts  in  my  own  mind,  or  outwardly 
express  to  me  a certain  obedience  to  the  great 
instincts  to  which  I live.  I see  its  presence  to 
them.  I am  certified  of  a common  nature ; 
and  so  these  other  souls,  these  separated  selves, 
draw  me  as  nothing  else  can.  They  stir  in 
me  the  new  emotions  we  call  passion  ; of  love, 
hatred,  fear,  admiration,  pity;  thence  comes 
conversation,  competition,  persuasion,  cities,  and 
war.  Persons  are  supplementary  to  the  primary 
teaching  of  the  soul.  In  youth  we  are  mad  for 
persons.  Childhood  and  youth  see  all  the  world 
in  them.  But  the  larger  experience  of  man  dis- 
covers the  identical  nature  appearing  through 
them  all.  Persons  themselves  acquaint  us  with 
the  impersonal.  In  all  conversation  between  two 
persons,  tacit  reference  is  made  as  to  a third  party, 
to  a common  nature.  That  third  party  or  com- 
mon nature  is  not  social ; it  is  impersonal ; is  God. 
And  so  in  groups  where  debate  is  earnest,  and  es- 


246 


ESS  A V IX, 


pecially  on  great  questions  of  thought,  the  com- 
pany become  aware  of  their  unity  ; aware  that  the 
thought  rises  to  an  equal  height  in  all  bosoms, 
that  all  have  a spiritual  property  in  what  was  said, 
as  well  as  the  sayer.  They  all  wax  wiser  than 
they  were.  It  arches  over  them  like  a temple, 
this  unity  of  thought,  in  which  every  heart  beats 
with  nobler  sense  of  power  and  duty,  and  thinks 
and  acts  with  unusual  solemnity.  All  are  con- 
scious of  attaining  to  a higher  self-possession.  It 
shines  for  all.  There  is  a certain  wisdom  of 
humanity  which  is  common  to  the  greatest  men 
with  the  lowest,  and  which  our  ordinary  education 
often  labors  to  silence  and  obstruct.  The  mind  is 
one,  and  the  best  minds  who  love  truth  for  its 
own  sake,  think  much  less  of  property  in  truth. 
Thankfully  they  accept  it  everywhere,  and  do  not 
label  or  stamp  it  with  any  man’s  name,  for  it  is 
theirs  long  beforehand.  It  is  theirs  from  eternity. 
The  learned  and  the  studious  of  thought  have  no 
monopoly  of  wisdom.  Their  violence  of  direction 
in  some  degree  disqualifies  them  to  think  truly. 
We  owe  many  valuable  observations  to  people 
who  are  not  very  acute  or  profound,  and  who  say 
the  thing  without  effort,  which  w^e  want  and  have 
long  been  hunting  in  vain.  The  action  of  the 
soul  is  oftener  in  that  which  is  felt  and  left  un- 
said, than  in  that  which  is  said  in  any  conversa- 
tion. It  broods  over  every  society,  and  they  un- 
consciously seek  for  it  in  each  other.  We  know 
better  than  we  do.  We  do  not  yet  possess  our- 
selves, and  we  know  at  the  same  time  that  we  are 


THE  OVER-SOUL, 


247 


much  more.  I feel  the  same  truth  how  often  in 
my  trivial  conversation  with  my  neighbors,  that 
somewhat  higher  in  each  of  us  overlooks  this  by- 
play, and  Jove  nods  to  Jove  from  behind  each  of 
us. 

Men  descend  to  meet.  In  their  habitual  and 
mean  service  to  the  world,  for  which  they  forsake 
their  native  nobleness,  they  resemble  those  Ara- 
bian Sheikhs,  who  dwell  in  mean  houses  and  affect 
an  external  poverty,  to  escape  the  rapacity  of  the 
Pacha,  and  reserve  all  their  display  of  wealth  for 
their  interior  and  guarded  retirements. 

As  it  is  present  in  all  persons,  so  it  is  in  every 
period  of  life.  It  is  adult  already  in  the  infant 
man.  In  my  dealing  with  my  child,  my  Latin  and 
Greek,  my  accomplishments  and  my  money,  stead 
me  nothing.  They  are  all  lost  on  him  : but  as. 
much  soul  as  I have,  avails.  If  I am  merely  wil- 
ful, he  gives  me  a Rowland  for  an  Oliver,  sets  his 
will  against  mine,  one  for  one,  and  leaves  me,  if  I 
please,  the  degradation  of  beating  him  by  my 
superiority  of  strength.  But  if  I renounce  my 
will,  and  act  for  the  soul,  setting  that  up  as  um- 
pire between  us  two,  out  of  his  young  eyes  looks 
the  same  soul ; he  reveres  and  loves  with  me. 

The  soul  is  the  perceiver  and  revealer  of  truth. 
We  know  truth  when  we  see  it,  let  skeptic  and 
scoffer  say  what  they  choose.  Foolish  people  ask 
you,  when  you  have  spoken  what  they  do  not 
wish  to  hear,  ‘‘  How  do  you  know  it  is  truth,  and 
not  an  error  of  your  own?”  We  know  truth 
when  we  see  it,  from  opinion,  as  we  know  when 


248 


ESS  A V IX, 


we  are  awake  that  we  are  awake.  It  was  a grand 
sentence  of  Emanuel  Swedenborg,  which  would 
alone  indicate  the  greatness  of  that  man’s  percep- 
tion,— It  is  no  proof  of  a man’s  understanding  to 
be  able  to  affirm  whatever  he  pleases,  but  to  be 
able  to  discern  that  what  is  true  is  true,  and 
that  what  is  false  is  false,  this  is  the  mark 
and  character  of  intelligence.”  In  the  book 
I read,  the  good  thought  returns  to  me,  as 
every  truth  will,  the  image  of  the  whole  soul.  To 
the  bad  thought  which  I find  in  it,  the  same  soul 
becomes  a discerning,  separating  sword  and  lops  it 
away.  We  are  wiser  than  we  know.  If  we  will 
not  interfere  with  our  thought,  but  will  act  en- 
tirely, or  see  how  the  thing  stands  in  God,  we 
know  the  particular  thing,  and  every  thing,  and 
every  man.  For,  the  Maker  of  all  things  and  all 
persons,  stands  behind  us,  and  casts  his  dread 
omniscience  through  us  over  things. 

But  beyond  this  recognition  of  its  own  in  partic- 
ular passages  of  the  individual’s  experience,  it 
also  reveals  truth.  And  here  we  should  seek  to 
reinforce  ourselves  by  its  very  presence,  and  to 
speak  with  a worthier,  loftier  strain  of  that  ad- 
vent. For  the  soul’s  communication  of  truth  is 
the  highest  event  in  nature,  for  it  then  does  not 
give  somewhat  from  itself,  but  it  gives  itself,  or 
passes  into  and  becomes  that  man  whom  it  en- 
lightens ; or  in  proportion  to  that  truth  he  re- 
ceives, it  takes  him  to  itself. 

We  distinguish  the  announcements  of  the  soul, 
its  manifestations  of  its  own  nature,  by  the  term 


THE  OVER-SOUL, 


249 


Revelation.  These  are  always  attended  by  the 
emotion  of  the  sublime.  For  this  communication 
is  an  influx  of  the  Divine  mind  into  our  mind.  It 
is  an  ebb  of  the  individual  rivulet  before  the  flow- 
ing surges  of  the  sea  of  life.  Every  distinct  ap- 
prehension of  this  central  commandment  agitates 
men  with  awe  and  delight.  A thrill  passes 
through  all  men  at  the  reception  of  new  truth,  or 
at  the  performance  of  a great  action,  which  comes 
out  of  the  heart  of  nature.  In  these  communica- 
tions, the  power  to  see  is  not  separated  from  the 
will  to  do,  but  the  insight  proceeds  from 
obedience,  and  the  obedience  proceeds  from  a joy- 
ful perception.  Every  moment  when  the  individ- 
ual feels  himself  invaded  by  it,  is  memorable. 
Always,  I believe,  by  the  necessity  of  our  consti- 
tution, a certain  enthusiasm  attends  the  individ- 
ual’s consciousness  of  that  divine  presence.  The 
character  and  duration  of  this  enthusiasm  varies 
with  the  state  of  the  individual,  from  an  extasy 
and  trance  and  prophetic  inspiration — which  is  its 
rarer  appearance,  to  the  faintest  glow  of  virtuous 
emotion,  in  which  form  it  warms,  like  our  house- 
hold flres,  all  the  families  and  associations  of  men, 
and  makes  society  possible.  A certain  tendency 
to  insanity  has  always  attended  the  opening  of  the 
religious  sense  in  men,  as  if  “ blasted  with  excess 
of  light.”  The  trances  of  Socrates;  the  “union” 
of  Plotinus ; the  vision  of  Porphyry ; the  conver- 
sion of  Paul ; the  aurora  of  Behmen  ; the  convul- 
sions of  George  Fox  and  his  Quakers ; the  illumin- 
ation of  Swedenborg;  are  of  this  kind.  What  was 


250 


ESS  A V IX, 


in  the  case  of  these  remarkable  persons  a ravish- 
ment, has,  in  innumerable  instances  in  common 
life,  been  exhibited  in  less  striking  manner.  Every- 
where the  history  of  religion  betrays  a tendency 
to  enthusiasm.  The  rapture  of  the  Moravian  and 
Quietist ; the  opening  of  the  internal  sense  of  the 
Word,  in  the  language  of  the  New  Jerusalem 
Church ; the  revival  of  the  Calvinistic  Churches ; 
the  experiences  of  the  Methodists,  are  varying 
forms  of  that  shudder  of  awe  and  delight  with 
which  the  individual  soul  always  mingles  with  the 
universal  soul. 

Tiie  nature  of  these  revelations  is  always  the 
same:  they  ara  perceptions  of  the  absolute  law. 
They  are  solutions  of  the  soul’s  own  questioiis. 
They  do  not  answer  the  questions  which  the  un- 
derstanding asks.  The  soul  answers  never  by 
words,  but  by  the  thing  itself  that  is  inquiied 
after. 

Revelation  is  the  disclosure  of  the  soul.  The 
popular  notion  of  a revelation,  is  that  it  is  a telling 
of  fortunes.  In  past  oracles  of  the  soul,  the  iin- 
derstai]ding  seeks  to  find  answers  to  sensual  ques- 
tions, and  undertakes  to  tell  from  God  how  long 
]uen  shall  exist,  what  their  hands  shall  do,  and 
who  shall  be  their  company,  adding  even  names, 
and  dates  and  places.  But  we  must  pick  no  locks. 
We  must  check  this  low  curiosity.  An  answer  in 
words  is  delusive ; it  is  really  no  answer  to  the 
questions  you  ask.  Do  not  ask  a description  of 
the  countries  toward  which  you  sail.  The  descrip- 
tion does  not  describe  them  to  you,  and  to-morrow 


THE  OVER-SOUE 


251 


you  arrive  there,  and  know  them  by  inhabiting 
them.  Men  ask  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and 
the  employments  of  heaven,  and  the  state  of  the 
sinner,  and  so  forth.  They  even  dream  that  Jesus 
has  left  replies  to  precisely  these  interrogatories. 
Never  a moment  did  that  sublime  spirit  speak  in 
their  patois.  To  truth,  justice,  love,  the  attributes 
of  the  soul,  the  idea  of  immutableness  is  essentially 
associated.  Jesus,  living  in  these  moral  senti- 
ments, heedless  of  sensual  fortunes,  heeding  only 
the  manifestations  of  these,  never  made  the  separa- 
tion of  the  idea  of  duration  from  the  essence  of 
these  attributes;  never  uttered  a syllable  concern- 
ing the  duration  of  the  soul.  It  was  left  to  his 
disciples  to  sever  duration  from  the  moral  elements 
and  to  teach  the  immortality  of  the  soul  as  a doc- 
trine, and  maintain  it  by  evidences.  The  moment 
the  doctrine  of  the  immortality  is  separately 
taught,  man  is  already  fallen.  In  the  flowing  of 
love,  in  the  adoration  of  humility,  there  is  no 
question  of  continuance.  No  inspired  man  ever 
asks  this  question,  or  condescends  to  these  evi- 
dences. For  the  soul  is  true  to  itself,  and  the 
man  in  whom  it  is  shed  abroad,  cannot  wander 
from  the  present,  which  is  inflnite,  to  a future, 
which  would  be  flnite.  \ 


These  questions  which  we  lust  to  ask  about 
the  future,  are  a confession  of  sin.  God  has  no 
answer  for  them.  No  answer  in  words  can  reply 
to  a question  of  things.  It  is  not  in  an  arbitrary 
decree  of  God,”  but  in  the  nature  of  man  that  a 
veil  shuts  down  on  the  facts  of  to-morrow  : for  the 


2$2 


ESS  A V IX, 


soul  will  not  have  us  read  any  other  cipher  but 
that  of  cause  and  effect.  By  this  veil,  which  cur- 
tains events,  it  instructs  the  children  of  men  to 
live  in  to-day.  The  only  mode  of  obtaining  an 
answer  to  these  questions  of  the  senses,  is,  to  fore- 
go all  low  curiosity,  and,  accepting  the  tide  of  being 
which  floats  us  into  the  secret  of  nature,  work  and 
live,  work  and  live,  and  all  unawares,  the  advancing 
soul  has  built  and  forged  for  itself  a new  condi- 
tion, and  the  question  and  the  answer  are  one. 

Thus  is  the  soul  the  perceiver  and  revealer  of 
truth.  By  the  same  fire,  serene,  impersonal,  per- 
fect, which  burns  until  it  shall  dissolve  all  things 
into  the  waves  and  surges  of  an  ocean  of  light, — 
we  see  and  know  each  other,  and  what  spirit  each 
is  of.  Who  can  tell  the  grounds  of  his  knowledge 
of  the  character  of  the  several  individuals  in  his 
circle  of  friends?  No  man.  Yet  their  acts  and 
words  do  not  disappoint  him.  In  that  man, 
though  he  knew  no  ill  of  him,  he  put  no  trust.  In 
that  other,  though  they  had  seldom  met,  authentic 
signs  had  yet  passed,  to  signify  that  he  might  be 
trusted  as  one  who  had  an  interest  in  his  own 
character.  We  know  each  other  very  well, — 
which  of  us  has  been  just  to  himself,  and  whether 
that  which  we  teach  or  behold,  is  only  an  aspira- 
tion, or  is  our  honest  effort  also. 

We  are  all  discerners  of  spirits.  That  diagnosis 
lies  aloft  in  our  life  or  unconscious  power,  not  in  the 
understanding.  The  w^hole  intercourse  of  society, 
its  trade,  its  religion,  its  friendships,  its  quarrels, 
— is  one  wide,  judicial  investigation  of  character. 


THE  OVER-SOUL, 


253 


In  full  court,  or  in  small  committee,  or  confronted 
face  to  face,  accuser  and  accused,  men  offer  them- 
selves to  be  judged.  Against  their  will  they  ex- 
hibit those  decisive  trifles  by  which  character  is 
read.  But  who  judges?  and  what?  Not  our  un- 
derstanding. We  do  not  read  them  by  learning 
or  craft.  No ; the  wisdom  of  the  wise  man  con- 
sists herein,  that  he  does  not  judge  them ; he  lets 
them  judge  themselves,  and  merely  reads  and  re- 
cords their  own  verdict. 

By  virtue  of  this  inevitable  nature,  private  will 
is  overpowered,  and,  maugre  our  efforts,  or  our 
imperfections,  your  genius  will  speak  from  you, 
and  mine  from  me.  That  which  we  are,  we  shall 
teach,  not  voluntarily,  but  involuntarily.  Thoughts 
come  into  our  minds  by  avenues  which  we  never 
left  open,  and  thoughts  go  out  of  our  minds 
through  avenues  which  we  never  voluntarily 
opened.  Character  teaches  over  our  head.  The^ 
infallible  index  of  true  progress  is  found  in  the 
tone  the  man  takes.  Neither  his  age,  nor  his 
breeding,  nor  company,  nor  books,  nor  actions, 
nor  talents,  nor  all  together,  can  hinder  him  from 
being  deferential  to  a higher  spirit  than  his  own. 

If  he  have  not  found  his  home  in  God,  his  man- 
ners, his  forms  of  speech,  the  turn  of  his  sentences, 
the  build,  shall  I say,  of  all  his  opinions  will  in- 
voluntarily confess  it,  let  him  brave  it  out  how  he 
will.  If  he  have  found  his  centre,  the  Deity  will 
shine  through  him,  through  all  the  disguises  of 
ignorance,  of  ungenial  temperament,  of  unfavor- 


254 


ESS  A V IX, 


able  circumstance.  The  tone  of  seeking,  is  one, 
and  the  tone  of  having  is  another. 

The  great  distinction  between  teachers,  sacred 
or  literary;  between  poets  like  Herbert,  and  poets 
like  Pope ; between  philosophers  like  Spinoza, 
Kant,  and  Coleridge, — and  philosophers  like 
Locke,  Paley,  Mackintosh,  and  Stewart ; between 
men  of  the  world  who  are  reckoned  accomplished 
talkers,  and  here  and  there  a fervent  mystic, 
prophesying  half-insane  under  the  infinitude  of  his 
thought,  is,  that  one  class  speak  ^rom  within,,  or 
from  experience,  as  parties  and  possessors  of  the 
fact ; and  the  other  class,  ^om  without,,  as  specta- 
tors merely,  or  perhaps  as  acquainted  with  the 
fact,  on  the  evidence  of  third  persons.  It  is  of  no 
use  to  preach  to  me  from  without.  I can  do  that 
too  easily  myself.  Jesus  speaks  always  from  with- 
in, and  in  a degree  that  transcends  all  others.  In 
that,  is  the  miracle.  That  includes  the  miracle. 
My  soul  believes  beforehand  that  it  ought  so  to  be. 
All  men  stand  continually  in  the  expectation  of 
the  appearance  of  such  a teacher.  But  if  a man 
do  not  speak  from  within  the  veil,  where  the  word 
is  one  with  that  it  tells  of,  let  him  lowly  confess  it. 

The  same  Omniscience  flows  into  the  intellect, 
and  makes  what  we  call  genius.  Much  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  world  is  not  wisdom,  and  the  most 
illuminated  class  of  men  are  no  doubt  superior  to 
literary  fame,  and  are  not  writers.  Among  the 
multitude  of  scholars  and  authors,  we  feel  no  hal- 
lowing presence ; we  are  sensible  of  a knack  and 
skill  rather  than  of  inspiration ; they  have  a 


THE  OVER-SOUE 


255 


light,  and  know  not  whence  it  comes,  and  call  it 
their  own  ; their  talent  is  some  exaggerated  fac- 
ulty, some  overgrown  member,  so  that  their 
strength  is  a disease.  In  these  instances,  the  in- 
tellectual gifts  do  not  make  the  impression  of 
virtue,  but  almost  of  vice ; and  we  feel  that  a 
man’s  talents  stand  in  the  way  of  his  advance- 
ment in  truth.  But  genius  is  religious.  It  is  a 
larger  imbibing  of  the  common  heart.  It  is  not 
anomalous,  but  more  like,  and  not  less  like  other 
men.  There  is  in  all  great  poets,  a wisdom  of  \ 
humanity,  which  is  superior  to  any  talents  they  / 
exercise.  The  author,  the  wit,  the  partisan,  the 
fine  gentleman,  does  not  take  place  of  the  man. 
Humanity  shines  in  Homer,  in  Chaucer,  in  Spen- 
ser, in  Shakespeare,  in  Milton.  They  are  content 
with  truth.  They  use  the  positive  degree.  They 
seem  frigid  and  phlegmatic  to  those  who  have 
been  spiced  with  the  frantic  passion  and  violent 
coloring  of  inferior,  but  popular  writers.  For, 
they  are  poets  by  the  free  course  which  they  al- 
low to  the  informing  soul,  which,  though  their 
eyes  beholdeth  again,  and  blesseth  the  things, 
which  it  hath  made.  The  soul  is  superior  to  its  \ 
knowledge ; wiser  than  any  of  its  works.  The^ 
great  poet  makes  us  feel  our  own  wealth,  and  then 
we  think  less  of  his  compositions.  His  greatest 
communication  to  our  mind,  is,  to  teach  us  to  de- 
spise all  he  has  done.  Shakespeare  carries  us  to 
such  a lofty  strain  of  intelligent  activity  as  to 
suggest  a wealth  which  beggars  his  own  : and  we 
then  feel  that  the  splendid  works  which  he  has 


2s6 


ESS  A V IX. 


created,  and  which  in  other  hours,  we  extol  as  a 
sort  of  self-existent  poetry,  take  no  stronger  hold 
of  real  nature  than  the  shadow  of  a passing 
traveller  on  the  rock.  The  inspiration  which 
uttered  itself  in  Hamlet  and  Lear,  could  utter 
things  as  good  from  day  to  day,  forever.  Why 
then  should  I make  account  of  Hamlet  and  Lear, 
as  if  we  had  not  the  soul  from  which  they  fell  as 
syllables  from  the  tongue  ? 

This  energy  does  not  descend  into  individual 
life,  on  any  other  condition  than  entire  possession. 
It  comes  to  the  lowly  and  simple ; it  comes  to 
whomsoever  will  put  off  what  is  foreign  and 
proud  ; it  comes  as  insight ; it  comes  as  serenity 
and  grandeur.  When  we  see  those  whom  it  in- 
habits, we  are  apprised  of  new  degrees  of  great- 
ness. From  that  inspiration  the  man  comes  back 
with  a changed  tone.  He  does  not  talk  with  men, 
with  an  eye  to  their  opinion.  He  tries  them.  It 
requires  of  us  to  be  plain  and  true.  The  vain 
traveller  attempts  to  embellish  his  life  by  quoting 
my  Lord,  and  the  Prince,  and  the  Countess,  who 
thus  said  or  did  to  him.  The  ambitious  vulgar, 
show  you  their  spoons,  and  brooches,  and  rings, 
and  preserve  their  cards  and  compliments.  The 
more  cultivated,  in  their  account  of  their  own  ex- 
perience, cull  out  the  pleasing  poetic  circum- 
stance ; the  visit  to  Rome ; the  man  of  genius 
they  saw ; the  brilliant  friend  they  know ; still 
further  on,  perhaps,  the  gorgeoiis  landscape,  the 
mountain  lights,  the  mountain  thoughts,  they 
enjoyed  yesterday, — and  so  seek  to  throw  a 


THE  OVER-SOUL. 


257 


romantic  color  over  their  life.  But  the  soul  that 
ascendeth  to  worship  the  great  God,  is  plain  and 
true  ; has  no  rose  color  ; no  fine  friends ; no  chiv- 
alry ; no  adventures;  does  not  want  admiration ; 
dwells  in  the  hour  that  now  is,  in  the  earnest  ex- 
perience of  the  common  day, — by  reason  of  the 
present  moment,  and  the  mere  trifie  having  be- 
come porous  to  thought,  and  bibulous  of  the  sea 
of  light. 

Converse  with  a mind  that  is  grandly  simple, 
and  literature  looks  like  word-catching.  The  \ 
simplest  utterances  are  worthiest  to  be  written, 
yet  are  they  so  cheap,  and  so  things  of  course,  that 
in  the  infinite  riches  of  the  soul,  it  is  like  gather- 
ing a few  pebbles  off  the  ground,  or  bottling  a 
little  air  in  a phial,  when  the  whole  earth,  and  the 
whole  atmosphere  are  ours.  The  mere  author,  in 
such  society,  is  like  a pick-pocket  among  gentle- 
men, who  has  come  in  to  steal  a gold  button  or  a 
pin.  Nothing  can  pass  there,  or  make  you  one  of 
the  circle,  but  the  casting  aside  your  trappings,  and 
dealing  man  to  man  in  naked  truth,  plain  confes- 
sion and  omniscient  affirmation.  ^ 

Souls,  such  as  these,  treat  you  as  gods  would  ; 
walk  as  gods  in  the  earth,  accepting  without 
any  admiration,  your  wit,  your  bounty,  your 
virtue,  even,  say  rather  your  act  of  duty,  for  your 
virtue  they  own  as  their  proper  blood,  royal  as 
themselves,  and  over-royal,  and  the  father  of  the 
gods.  But  what  rebuke  their  plain  fraternal 
bearing  casts  on  the  mutual  flatterj^  with  which 
authors  solace  each  other,  and  wound  themselves ! 

17 


258 


ESS  A Y IX. 


These  flatter  not.  I do  not  wonder  that  these 
men  go  to  see  Cromwell,  and  Christina,  and 
Charles  II.,  and  James  I.,  and  the  Grand  Turk. 
For  they  are  in  their  own  elevation,  the  fellows 
of  kings,  and  must  feel  the  servile  tone  of  con- 
versation in  the  world.  They  must  always  be  a 
godsend  to  princes,  for  they  confront  them,  a king 
to  a king,  without  ducking  or  concession,  and  give 
a high  nature  the  refreshment  and  satisfaction  of 
resistance,  of  plain  humanity,  of  even  companion- 
ship, and  of  new  ideas.  They  leave  them  wiser 
/ and  superior  men.  Souls  like  these  make  us  feel 
\ that  sincerity  is  more  excellent  than  flattery. 
Deal  so  plainly  with  man  and  woman,  as  to  con- 
strain the  utmost  sincerity,  and  destroy  all  hope 
of  trifling  with  you.  It  is  the  highest  compliment 
you  can  pay.  Their  ‘^highest  praising,”  said 
Milton,  “ is  not  flattery,  and  their  plainest  advice  is 
a kind  of  praising.” 

Ineffable  is  the  union  of  man  and  God  in  every 
act  of  the  soul.  The  simplest  person,  who  in  his 
integrity  worships  God,  becomes  God ; yet  for- 
ever and  ever  the  influx  of  this  better  and  uni- 
versal self  is  new  and  unsearchable.  Ever  it  in- 
spires awe  and  astonishment.  Hqw  dear,  how 
soothing  to  man,  arises  the  idea  of  God,  peopling 
the  lonely  place,  effacing  the  scars  of  our  mistakes 
and  disappointments  ! When  we  have  broken  our 
god  of  tradition,  and  ceased  from  our  god  of 
rhetoric,  then  may  God  fire  the  heart  with  his 
presence.  It  is  the  doubling  of  the  heart  itself, 
nay,  the  infinite  enlargement  of  the  heart  with  a 


THE  OVER-SOUE 


259 


power  of  growth  to  a new  infinity  on  every  side. 
It  inspires  in  man  an  infallible  trust.  He  has  not 
the  conviction,  but  the  sight  that  the  best  is  the 
true,  and  may  in  that  thought  easily  dismiss  all 
particular  uncertainties  and  fears,  and  adjourn 
to  the  sure  revelation  of  time,  the  solution  of 
his  private  riddles.  He  is  sure  that  his  welfare 
is  dear  to  the  heart  of  being.  In  the  presence  of 
law  to  his  mind,  he  is  overflowed  with  a reliance 
so  universal,  that  it  sweeps  away  all  cherished 
hopes  and  the  most  stable  projects  of  mortal  con- 
dition in  its  flood.  He  believes  that  he  cannot 
escape  from  his  good.  The  things  that  are  really 
for  thee,  gravitate  to  thee.  You  are  running  to 
seek  your  friend.  Let  your  feet  run,  but  your 
mind  need  not.  If  you  do  not  find  him,  will  you 
not  acquiesce  that  it  is  best  you  should  not  find 
him  ? for  there  is  a power,  which,  as  it  is  in  you  is  in 
him  also,  and  could  therefore  very  well  bring 
you  together,  if  it  were  for  the  best.  You  are 
preparing  with  eagerness  to  go  and  render  a ser- 
vice to  which  your  talent  and  your  taste  invite 
you,  the  love  of  men,  and  the  hope  of  fame.  Has 
it  not  occured  to  you,  that  you  have  no  right  to 
go,  unless  you  are  equally  willing  to  be  prevented 
from  going?  O believe,  as  thou  livest,  that  every 
sound  that  is  spoken  over  the  round  world, 
which  thou  oughtest  to  hear,  will  vibrate  on  thine 
ear.  Every  proverb,  every  book,  every  by-word 
that  belongs  to  thee  for  aid  or  comfort,  shall  surely 
come  home  through  open  or  winding  passages. 
Every  friend  whom  not  thy  fantastic  will,  but 


26o 


ESS  A V IX. 


the  great  and  tender  heart  in  thee  craveth, 
shall  lock  thee  in  his  embrace.  And  this,  because 
the  heart  in  thee  is  the  heart  of  all ; not  a valve, 
not  a wall,  not  an  intersection  is  there  anywhere 
in  nature,  but  one  blood  rolls  uninterruptedly,  an 
endless  circulation  through  all  men,  as  the  water 
of  the  globe  is  all  one  sea,  and,  truly  seen,  its 
tide  is  one. 

Let  man  then  learn  the  revelation  of  all  nature, 
and  all  thought  to  his  heart ; this,  namely  ; that 
the  Highest  dwells  with  him  ; that  the  sources  of 
nature  are  in  his  own  mind,  if  the  sentiment  of 
duty  is  there.  But  if  he  would  know  what  the 
great  God  speaketh,  he  must  ‘‘go  into  his  closet 
and  shut  the  door,”  as  Jesus  said.  God  will  not 
make  himself  manifest  to  cowards.  He  must 
greatly  listen  to  himself,  withdrawing  himself 
from  all  the  accents  of  other  men’s  devotion. 
Their  prayers  even  are  hurtful  to  him,  until  he 
has  made  his  own.  The  soul  makes  no  appeal 
from  itself.  Our  religion  vulgarly  stands  on 
numbers  of  believers.  Whenever  the  appeal  is 
made, — no  matter  how  indirectly, — to  numbers, 
proclamation  is  then  and  there  made,  that  religion 
is  not.  He  that  finds  God  a sweet,  enveloping 
thought  to  him,  never  counts  his  company.  When 
I sit  in  that  presence,  who  shall  dare  to  come  in? 
When  I rest  in  perfect  humility,  when  I burn  with 
pure  love, — what  can  Calvin  or  Swedenborg  say  ? 

It  makes  no  difference  whether  the  appeal  is  to 
numbers  or  to  one.  The  faith  that  stands  on 
authority  is  not  faith.  The  reliance  on  authority, 


THE  OVER-SOUL, 


261 

measures  the  decline  of  religion,  the  withdrawal 
of  the  soul.  The  position  men  have  given  to 
Jesus,  now  for  many  centuries  of  history,  is  a po- 
sition of  authority.  It  characterizes  themselves. 
It  cannot  alter  the  eternal  facts.  Great  is  the 
soul,  and  plain.  It  is  no  flatterer,  it  is  no  fol- 
lower ; it  never  appeals  from  itself.  It  always 
believes  in  itself.  Before  the  immense  possibili- 
ties of  man,  all  mere  experience,  all  past  biogra- 
phy, however  spotless  and  sainted,  shrinks  away. 
Before  that  holy  heaven  which  our  presentiments 
foreshow  us,  we  cannot  easily  praise  any  form  of 
life  we  have  seen  or  read  of.  We  not  only  affirm 
that  we  have  few  great  men,  but  absolutely  speak- 
ing, that  we  have  none ; that  we  have  no  history, 
no  record  of  any  character  or  mode  of  living,  that 
entirely  contents  us.  The  saints  and  demigods 
whom  history  worships,  we  are  constrained  to  ac- 
cept with  a grain  of  allowance.  Though  in  our 
lonely  hours,  we  draw  a new  strength  out  of  their 
memory,  yet  pressed  on  our  attention,  as  they  are 
by  the  thoughtless  and  customary,  they  fatigue 
and  invade.  The  soul  gives  itself  alone,  original, 
and  pure,  to  the  Lonely,  Original  and  Pure,  who, 
on  that  condition,  gladly  inhabits,  leads,  and 
speaks  through  it.  Then  is  it  glad,  young,  and- 
nimble.  It  is  not  wise,  but  it  sees  through  all 
things.  It  is  not  called  religious,  but  it  is  inno- 
cent. It  calls  the  light  its  own,  and  feels  that  the 
grass  grows,  and  the  stone  falls  by  a law  inferior 
to,  and  dependent  on  its  nature.  Behold,  it  saith, 
I am  born  into  the  great,  the  universal  mind.  I 


262 


ESS  A V IX, 


the  imperfect,  adore  niy  own  Perfect.  I am  some- 
how receptive  of  the  great  soul,  and  thereby  I do 
overlook  the  san  and  the  stars,  and  feel  them  to 
be  but  the  fair  accidents  and  effects  which  change 
and  pass.  More  and  more  the  surges  of  everlast- 
ing nature  enter  into  me,  and  I become  public  and 
human  in  my  regards  and  actions.  So  come  I to 
live  in  thoughts,  and  act  with  energies  which  are 
immortal.  Thus  revering  the  soul,  and  learning, 
as  the  ancient  said,  that  its  beauty  is  immense,” 
man  will  come  to  see  that  the  world  is  the  peren- 
nial miracle  which  the  soul  worketh,  and  be  less 
astonished  at  particular  wonders ; he  will  learn 
that  there  is  no  profane  history ; that  all  history 
is  sacred  ; that  the  universe  is  represented  in  an 
atom,  in  a moment  of  time.  He  will  weave  no 
longer  a spotted  life  of  shreds  and  patches,  but  he 
will  live  with  a divine  unity.  He  will  cease  from 
what  is  base  and  frivolous  in  his  own  life,  and  be 
content  with  all  places  and  any  service  he  can 
render.  He  will  calmly  front  the  morrow  in  the 
negligency  of  that  trust  which  carries  God  with 
it,  and  so  hath  already  the  whole  future  in  the 
bottom  of  the  heart. 


CIRCLES. 


CIRCLES. 


The  eye  is  the  first  circle ; the  horizon  which 
it  forms  is  the  second  ; and  throughout  nature  this 
primary  figure  is  repeated  without  end.  It  is  the 
highest  emblem  in  the  cipher  of  the  world.  St. 
Augustine  described  the  nature  of  God  as  a circle 
whose  centre  was  everywhere,  and  its  circumfer- 
ence nowhere.  We  are  all  our  lifetime  reading 
the  copious  sense  of  this  first  of  forms.  One 
moral  we  have  already  deduced  in  considering  the 
circular  or  compensatory  character  of  every  human 
action.  Another  analogy  we  shall  now  trace  ; that 
every  action  admits  of  being  outdone.  Our  life 
is  an  apprenticeship  to  the  truth,  that  around 
every  circle  another  can  be  drawn ; that  there  is 
no  end  in  nature,  but  every  end  is  a beginiiing ; 
that  there  is  always  another  dawn  risen  on  mid- 
noon,  and  under  every  deep  a lower  deep  opens. 

This  fact,  as  far  as  it  symbolizes  the  moral  fact 
of  the  Unattainable,  the  flying  Perfect,  around 
which  the  hands  of  man  can  never  meet,  at  once 
the  inspirer  and  the  condemner  of  every  success, 
may  conveniently  serve  us  to  connect  many  illus- 
trations of  human  power  in  every  department. 

There  are  no  fixtures  in  nature.  The  universe 

(265) 


266 


ESSAY  X. 


is  fluid  and  volatile.  Permanence  is  but  a word 
of  degrees.  Our  globe  seen  by  God,  is  a trans- 
parent law,  not  a mass  of  facts.  The  law  dissolves 
the  fact  and  holds  it  fluid.  Our  culture  is  the 
predominance  of  an  idea  which  draws  after  it  all 
this  train  of  cities  and  institutions.  Let  us  rise 
into  another  idea : they  will  disappear.  The  Greek 
sculpture  is  all  melted  away,  as  if  it  had  been 
statues  of  ice ; here  and  there  a solitary  figure  or 
fragment  remaining,  as  we  see  flecks  and  scraps 
of  snow  left  in  cold  dells  and  mountain  clefts,  in 
June  and  July.  For,  the  genius  that  created  it, 
creates  now  somewhat  else.  The  Greek  letters 
last  a little  longer,  but  are  already  passing  under 
the  same  sentence,  and  tumbling  into  the  inevi- 
table pit  which  the  creation  of  new  thought  opens 
for  all  that  is  old.  The  new  continents  are  built 
out  of  the  ruins  of  an  old  planet:  the  new  races 
fed  out  of  the  decomposition  of  the  foregoing. 
New  arts  destroy  the  old.  See  the  investment  of 
capital  in  aqueducts,  made  useless  by  hydraulics; 
fortifications,  by  gunpowder;  roads  and  canals, by 
railways;  sails,  by  steam;  steam  by  electricity. 

You  admire  this  tower  of  granite,  weathering 
the  hurts  of  so  many  ages.  Yet  a little  waving 
hand  built  this  huge  wall,  and  that  which  builds, 
is  better  than  that  which  is  built.  The  hand  that 
built,  can  topple  it  down  much  faster.  Better 
than  the  hand,  and  nimbler,  was  the  invisible 
thought  which  wrought  through  it,  and  thus  ever 
behind  the  coarse  effect,  is  a fine  cause,  which, 
being  narrowly  seen,  is  itself  the  effect  of  a finer 


CIRCLES, 


267 


cause.  Everything  looks  permanent  until  its 
secret  is  known.  A rich  estate  appears  to  women 
and  children,  a firm  and  lasting  fact ; to  a mer- 
chant, one  easily  created  out  of  any  materials,  and 
easily  lost.  An  orchard,  good  tillage,  good 
grounds,  seem  a fixture,  like  a gold  mine,  or  a 
river,  to  a citizen,  but  to  a large  farmer,  not  much 
more  fixed  than  the  state  of  the  crop.  Nature 
looks  provokingly  stable  and  secular,  but  it  has 
a cause  like  all  the  rest ; and  when  once  I com- 
prehend that,  will  these  fields  stretch  so  immova- 
bly wide,  these  leaves  hang  so  individually  con- 
siderable ? Permanence  is  a word  of  degrees. 
Everything  is  medial.  Moons  are  no  more  bounds 
to  spiritual  power  than  bat-balls. 

The  key  to  every  man  is  his  thought.  Sturdy 
and  defying  though  he  look,  he  has  a helm  which 
he  obeys,  which  is,  the  idea  after  which  ail  his 
facts  are  classified.  He  can  only  be  reformed  by 
showing  him  a new  idea  which  commands  his  own. 
The  life  of  man  is  a self-evolving  circle,  which, 
from  a ring  imperceptibly  small,  rushes  on  ail 
sides  outwards  to  new  and  larger  circles,  and  that 
without  end.  The  extent  to  which  this  genera- 
tion of  circles,  wheel  without  wheel,  will  go,  de- 
pends on  the  force  or  truth  of  the  individual  soul. 
For,  it  is  the  inert  effort  of  each  thought  having 
formed  itself  into  a circular  wave  of  circum- 
stance, as,  for  instance,  an  empire,  rules  of  an  art, 
a local  usage,  a religious  rite,  to  heap  itself  on 
that  ridge,  and  to  solidify,  and  hem  in  the  life. 
But  if  the  soul  is  quick  and  strong,  it  bursts  over 


268 


ESSAY  X. 


that  boundary  on  all  sides,  and  expands  another 
orbit  on  the  great  deep,  which  also  runs  up  into  a 
high  wave,  with  attempt  again  to  stop  and  to 
bind.  But  the  heart  refuses  to  be  imprisoned;  in 
its  first  and  narrowest  pulses,  it  already  tends 
outward  with  a vast  force,  and  to  immense  and  in 
numerable  expansions. 

Every  ultimate  fact  is  only  the  first  of  a new 
series.  Every  general  law  only  a particular  fact 
of  some  more  general  law  presently  to  disclose 
itself.  There  is  no  outside,  no  enclosing  wall,  no 
circumference  to  us.  The  man  finishes  his  story, 
— how  good  ! how  final ! how  it  puts  a new  face 
on  all  things!  He  fills  the  sky.  Lo,  on  the  other 
side,  rises  also  a man,  and  draws  a circle  around 
the  circle  we  had  just  pronounced  the  outline  of 
the  sphere.  Then  already  is  our  first  speaker, 
not  man,  but  only  a first  speaker.  His  only 
redress  is  forthwith  to  draw  a circle  outside  of 
his  antagonist.  And  so  men  do  by  themselves. 
The  result  of  to-day  which  haunts  the  mind  and 
cannot  be  escaped,  will  presently  be  abridged 
into  a word,  and  the  principle  that  seemed  to 
explain  nature,  will  itself  be  included  as  one 
example  of  a bolder  generalization.  In  the 
thought  of  to-morrow  there  is  a power  to  upheave 
all  thy  creed,  all  the  creeds,  all  the  literatures  of 
the  nations,  and  marshal  thee  to  a heaven  which 
no  epic  dream  has  yet  depicted.  Every  man  is 
not  so  much  a workman  in  the  world,  as  he  is  a. 
suggestion  of  that  he  should  be.  Men  walk  as 
prophecies  of  the  next  age. 


CIRCLES. 


269 


Step  by  step  we  scale  this  mysterious  ladder ; 
the  steps  are  actions  ; the  new  prospect  is  power. 
Every  several  result  is  threatened  and  judged  by 
that  which  follows.  Every  one  seems  to  be  con- 
tradicted by  the  new ; it  is  only  limited  by  the 
new.  The  new  statement  is  always  hated  by  the 
old,  and,  to  those  dwelling  in  the  old,  comes  like 
an  abyss  of  skepticism.  But  the  eye  soon  gets 
wonted  to  it,  for  the  eye  and  it  are  effects  of  one 
cause  ; then  its  innocency  and  benefit  appear,  and, 
presently,  all  its  energy  spent,  it  pales  and  dwin- 
dles before  the  revelation  of  the  new  hour. 

Fear  not  the  new  generalization.  Does  the  fact 
look  crass  and  material,  threatening  to  degrade 
thy  theory  of  spirit?  Resist  it  not;  it  goes  to 
refine  and  raise  thy  theory  of  matter  just  as 
much. 

There  are  no  fixtures  to  men,  if  we  appeal  to 
consciousness.  Every  man  supposes  himself  not 
to  be  fully  understood ; and  if  there  is  any  truth 
in  him,  if  he  rests  at  last  on  the  divine  soul,  I 
see  not  how  it  can  be  otherwise.  The  last  cham- 
ber, the  last  closet,  he  must  feel,  was  never 
opened  ; there  is  always  a residuum  unknown, 
unanalyzable.  That  is,  every  man  believes  that 
he  has  a greater  possibility. 

Our  moods  do  not  believe  in  each  other.  To- 
day, I am  full  of  thoughts,  and  can  write  what  I 
please.  I see  no  reason  why  I should  not  have 
the  same  thought,  the  same  power  of  expression 
to-morrow.  What  I write,  whilst  I write  it^ 
seems  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  : but, 


270 


ESSAY  X. 


yesterday,  I saw  a dreary  vacuity  in  this  direction 
in  which  now  I see  so  much  ; aud  a month  hence, 
I doubt  not,  I shall  wonder  who  he  was  that 
wrote  so  many  continuous  pages.  Alas  for  this 
infirm  faith,  this  will  not  strenuous,  this  vast  ebb 
of  a vast  flow  ! I am  God  in  nature ; 1 am  a 
weed  by  the  wall. 

The  continual  effort  to  raise  himself  above  him- 
self, to  work  a pitch  above  his  last  height,  betrays 
itself  in  a man’s  relations.  We  thirst  for  appro- 
bation, yet  cannot  forgive  the  approver.  The 
sweet  of  nature  is  love ; yet  if  I have  a friend,  I 
am  tormented  by  my  imperfections.  The  love  of 
me  accuses  the  other  party.  If  he  were  high 
enough  to  slight  me,  then  could  I love  him,  and 
rise  by  my  affection  to  new  heights.  A man’s 
growth  is  seen  in  the  successive  choirs  of  his 
friends.  For  every  friend  whom  he  loses  for 
truth,  he  gains  a better.  I thought,  as  I walked 
in  the  woods  and  mused  on  my  friends,  why 
should  I play  with  them  this  game  of  idolatry  ? 
I know  and  see  too  well,  when  not  voluntarily 
blind,  the  speedy  limits  of  persons  called  high  and 
worthy.  Rich,  noble,  and  great  they  are  by  the 
liberality  of  our  speech,  but  truth  is  sad.  O 
blessed  Spirit,  whom  I forsake  for  these,  they  are 
not  thee  ! Every  personal  consideration  that  we 
allow,  costs  us  heavenly  state.  We  sell  the 
thrones  of  angels  for  a short  and  turbulent  pleas- 
ure. 

How  often  must  we  learn  this  lesson  ? Men 
cease  to  interest  us  when  we  find  their  limitations. 


CIRCLES, 


271 


The  only  sin  is  limitation.  As  soon  as  you  once 
come  up  with  a man’s  limitations,  it  is  all  over 
with  him.  Has  he  talents  ? has  he  enterprises  ? 
has  he  knowledge  ? it  boots  not.  Infinitely  allur- 
ing and  attractive  was  he  to  you  yesterday,  a great 
liope,  a sea  to  swim  in  ; now,  you  have  found  his 
shores,  found  it  a pond,  and  you  care  not  if  you 
never  see  it  again. 

Each  new  step  we  take  in  thought  reconciles 
twenty  seemingly  discordant  facts,  as  expressions 
of  one  law.  Aristotle  and  Plato  are  reckoned  the 
respective  heads  of  two  schools.  A wise  man  will 
see  that  Aristotle  Platonizes.  By  going  one  step 
farther  back  in  thought,  discordant  opinions  are 
reconciled,  by  being  seen  to  be  two  extremes  of 
one  principle,  and  we  can  never  go  so  far  back  as 
to  preclude  a still  higher  vision. 

Beware  when  the  great  God  lets  loose  a thinker 
on  this  planet.  Then  all  things  are  at  risk.  It  is 
as  when  a conflagration  has  broken  out  in  a great 
city,  and  no  man  knows  what  is  safe,  or  where  it 
will  end.  There  is  not  a piece  of  science,  but  its 
flank  may  be  turned  to-morrow ; there  is  not  any 
literary  reputation,  not  the  so-called  eternal  names 
of  fame,  that  may  not  be  revised  and  condemned. 
The  very  hopes  of  man,  the  thoughts  of  his  heart, 
the  religion  of  nations,  the  manners  and  morals  of 
mankind,  are  all  at  the  mercy  of  a new  general- 
ization. Generalization  is  always  a new  influx  of 
the  divinit}"  into  the  mind.  Hence  the  thrill  that 
attends  it. 

Valor  consists  in  the  power  of  self- recovery,  so 


2/2 


ESSAY  X 


that  a man  cannot  have  his  flank  turned,  cannot 
be  outgeneraled,  but  put  him  where  you  will,  he 
stands.  This  can  only" be  hy  his  preferring  truth 
to  his  past  apprehension  of  truth  ; and  his  alert 
acceptance  of  it  from  whatever  quarter ; the  intrepid 
conviction  that  his  laws  his  relations  to  society, 
his  Christianity,  his  world,  may  at  any  time  be  su- 
perseded and  decease. 

There  are  degrees  in  idealism.  We  learn  first 
to  play  with  it  academically,  as  the  magnet  was 
once  a toy.  Then  we  see  in  the  heyday  of  youth 
and  poetry  that  it  may  be  true,  that  it  is  true  in 
gleams  and  fragments.  Then,  its  countenance 
waxes  stern  and  grand,  and  we  see  that  it  must  be 
true.  It  now  shows  itself  ethical  and  practical. 
We  learn  that  God  is;  that  he  is  in  me ; and  that 
all  things  are  shadows  of  him.  The  idealism  of 
Berkeley  is  only  a crude  statement  of  the  ideal- 
ism of  Jesus,  and  that,  again,  is  a crude  statement 
of  the  fact  that  all  nature  is  the  rapid  efflux  of 
goodness  executing  and  organizing  itself.  Much 
more  obviously  is  history  and  the  state  of  the 
world  at  any  one  time,  directly  dependent  on  the 
intellectual  classification  then  existing  in  the 
minds  of  men.  The  things  which  are  dear  to  men 
at  this  hour,  are  so  on  account  of  the  ideas  which 
have  emerged  on  their  mental  horizon,  and  which 
cause  the  present  order  of  things  as  a tree  bears 
its  apples.  A new  degree  of  culture  would  in- 
stantly revolutionize  the  entire  system  of  human 
pursuits. 

Conversation  is  a game  of  circles.  In  con  versa- 


CIRCLES, 


273 


tion  we  pluck  up  the  termini  which  bound  the 
common  of  silence  on  every  side.  The  parties  are 
not  to  be  judged  by  the  spirit  they  partake  and 
even  express  under  this  Pentecost.  To-morrow 
they  will  have  receded  from  this  high-water  mark. 
To-morrow  you  shall  find  them  stooping  under  the 
old  pack-saddles.  Yet  let  us  enjoy  the  cloven 
flame  whilst  it  glows  on  our  walls.  When  each  new 
speaker  strikes  anew  light,  emancipates  us  from  the 
oppression  of  the  last  speaker,  to  oppress  us  with  the 
greatness  and^  exclusiveness  of  his  own  thought, 
then  yields  us  to  another  redeemer,  we  seem  to  re- 
cover our  rights,  to  become  men.  O what  truths 
profound  and.  executable  only  in  ages  and  orbs, 
are  supposed  in  the  announcement  of  every  truth  ! 
In  common  hours,  society  sits  cold  and  statuesque. 
We  all  stand  waiting,  empty, — knowing,  possibly, 
that  we  can  be  full,  surrounded  by  mighty  sym- 
bols which  are  not  symbols  to  us,  but  prose  and 
trivial  toys.  Then  cometh  the  god,  and  converts 
the  statues  into  fiery  men,  and  by  a flash  of  his 
eye  burns  up  the  veil  which  shrouded  all  things, 
and  the  meaning  of  the  very  furniture,  of  cup  and 
saucer,  of  chair  and  clock  and  tester,  is  manifest. 
The  facts  which  loomed  so  large  in  the  fogs  of 
yesterday, — property,  climate,  breeding,  personal 
beauty,  and  the  like,  have  strangely  changed  their 
proportions.  All  that  we  reckoned  settled,  shakes 
now  and  rattles ; and  literatures,  cities,  climates, 
religions,  leave  their  foundations,  and  dance  be- 
fore our  eyes.  And  yet  here  again  see  the  swift 
circumscription.  Good  as  is  discourse,  silence  is 
18 


274 


ESSAY  X. 


better,  and  shames  it.  The  lenetli  of  the  dis- 
course indicates  the  distance  of  thought  betwixt 
the  speaker  and  the  hearer.  If  they  were  at  a 
perfect  understanding  in  any  part,  no  words 
would  be  necessary  thereon.  If  at  one  in  all 
parts,  no  words  would  be  suffered. 

Literature  is  a point  outside  of  our  hodiernal 
circle,  through  which  a new  one  may  be  described. 
The  use  of  literature  is  to  afford  ns  a platform 
whence  we  may  command  a view  of  our  present 
life,  a purchase  by  which  we  may.  move  it.  We 
fill  ourselves  with  ancient  learning;  install  our- 
selves the  best  we  can  in  Greek,  in  Punic,  in  Ro- 
man houses,  only  that  we  may  wiselier  see  French, 
English,  and  American  houses  and  modes  of  liv- 
ing. In  like  manner,  we  see  literature  best  from 
the  midst  of  wild  nature,  or  from  the  din  of  affairs, 
or  from  a high  religion.  The  field  cannot  be  well 
seen  from  within  the  field.  The  astronomer  must 
have  his  diameter  of  the  earth’s  orbit  as  a base  to 
find  the  parallax  of  any  star. 

Therefore,  we  value  the  poet.  All  the  argu- 
ment, and  all  the  wisdom,  is  not  in  the  encyclo- 
pedia, or  the  treatise  on  metaphysics,  or  the  Body 
of  Divinity,  but  in  the  sonnet  or  the  play.  In  my 
daily  work  I incline  to  repeat  my  old  steps,  and 
do  not  believe  in  remedial  force,  in  the  power  of 
change  and  reform.  Rut  some  Petrarch  or  Ari- 
osto, filled  with  the  new  wine  of  his  imagination, 
writes  me  an  ode,  or  a brisk  romance,  full  of  dar- 
ing thought  and  action.  He  smites  and  arouses 
me  with  his  shrill  tones,  breaks  up  my  whole  chain 


CIRCLES, 


275 


of  habits,  and  I open  my  eye  on  my  own  possibili- 
ties. He  claps  wings  to  the  sides  of  all  the  solid 
old  lumber  of  the  world,  and  I am  capable  once 
more  of  choosing  a straight  path  in  theory  and 
practice. 

We  have  the  same  need  to  command  a view  of 
the  religion  of  the  world.  We  can  never  see 
Christianity  from  the  catechism, — from  the  pas- 
tures, from  a boat  in  the  pond,  from  amidst  the 
songs  of  wood-birds,  we  possibly  may.  Cleansed 
by  the  elemental  light  and  wind,  steeped  in  the 
sea  of  beautiful  forms  which  the  field  offers  us,  we 
may  chance  to  cast  a right  glance  back  upon  biog- 
raphy. Christianity  is  rightly  dear  to  the  best  of 
mankind  ; yet  was  there  never  a young  philoso- 
pher whose  breeding  had  fallen  into  the  Christian 
church,  by  whom  that  brave  text  of  Paul’s,  was 
not  specially  prized,  Then  shall  also  the  Son  be 
subject  unto  Him  who  put  all  things  under  him, 
that  God  may  be  all  in  all.”  Let  the  claims  and 
virtues  of  persons  be  never  so  great  and  welcome, 
the  instinct  of  man  presses  eagerly  onward  to  the 
impersonal  and  illimitable,  and  gladly  arms  itself 
against  the  dogmatism  of  bigots  with  this  generous 
word,  out  of  the  book  itself. 

The  natural  world  may  be  conceived  of  as  a 
system  of  concentric  circles,  and  we  now  and  then 
detect  in  nature  slight  dislocations,  which  apprize 
us  that  this  surface  on  which  we  now  stand,  is  not 
fixed,  but  sliding.  These  manifold  tenacious 
qualities,  this  chemistry  and  vegetation,  these 
metals  and  animals,  which  seem  to  stand  there  for 


276 


ESSAY  X, 


their  own  sake,  are  means  and  methods  only,  are 
words  of  God,  and  as  fugitive  as  other  words. 
Has  the  naturalist  or  chemist  learned  his  craft, 
who  has  explored  the  gravity  of  atoms  and  the  elect- 
ive affinities,  who  has  not  yet  discerned  the  deeper 
law  whereof  this  is  only  a partial  or  approximate 
statement,  namely,  that  like  draws  to  like ; and 
that  the  goods  which  belong  to  you,  gravitate  to 
you,  and  need  not  be  pursued  with  pains  and  cost  ? 
Yet  is  that  statement  approximate  also,  and  not 
final.  Omnipresence  is  a higher  fact.  Not  through 
subtle,  subterranean  channels,  need  friend  and 
fact  be  drawn  to  their  counterpart,  but,  rightly 
considered,  these  things  proceed  from  the  eternal 
generation  of  the  soul.  Cause  and  effect  are  two 
sides  of  one  fact. 

The  same  law  of  eternal  procession  ranges  all 
that  we  call  the  virtues,  and  extinguishes  each  in 
the  light  of  a better.  The  great  man  will  not  be 
prudent  in  the  popular  sense ; all  his  prudence 
will  be  so  much  deduction  from  his  grandeur. 
But  it  behooves  each  to  see  when  he  sacrifices  pru- 
dence, to  what  god  he  devotes  it ; if  to  ease  and 
pleasure,  he  had  better  be  prudent  still ; if 
to  a great  trust,  he  can  well  spare  his  mule  and 
panniers,  who  has  a winged  chariot  instead. 
Geoffrey  draws  on  his  boots  to  go  through  the 
woods,  that  his  feet  may  be  safer  from  the  bite  of 
snakes;  Aaron  never  thinks  of  such  a peril.  In 
many  years,  neither  is  harmed  by  such  an  ac- 
cident. Yet  it  seems  to  me  that  with  every  pre- 
caution you  take  against  such  an  evil,  you  put 


CIRCLES. 


277 


yourself  into  the  power  of  the  evil.  I suppose 
that  the  highest  prudence  is  the  lowest  prudence. 
Is  this  too  sudden  a rushing  from  the  centre  to 
the  verge  of  our  orbit  ? Think  how  many  times 
we  shall  fall  back  into  pitiful  calculations,  before 
we  take  up  our  rest  in  the  great  sentiment,  01 
make  the  verge  of  to-day  the  new  centre.  Be- 
sides, your  bravest  sentiment  is  familiar  to  the 
humblest  men.  The  poor  and  the  low  have  their 
way  of  expressing  the  last  facts  of  philosophy  as 
well  as  you.  Blessed  be  nothing,”  and  the 
worse  things  are,  the  better  they  are,”  are  prov- 
erbs which  express  the  transcendentalism  of  com- 
mon life. 

One  man's  justice  is  another’s  injustice  ; one 
man's  beauty,  another’s  ugliness;  one  man’s 
wisdom,  another’s  folly,  as  one  beholds  the 
same  objects  from  a higher  point  of  view.  One 
man  thinks  justice  consists  in  paying  debts,  and 
has  no  measure  in  his  abhorrence  of  another  who 
is  very  remiss  in  this  duty,  and  makes  the  creditor 
wait  tediously.  But  that  second  man  has  his  own 
way  of  looking  at  things;  asks  himself,  which 
debt  must  I pay  first,  the  debt  to  the  rich,  or  the 
debt  to  the  poor  ? the  debt  of  money,  or  the  debt 
of  thought  to  mankind,  of  genius  to  nature  ? For 
you,  O broker,  there  is  no  other  principle  but 
arithmetic.  For  me,  commerce  is  of  trivial  im- 
port ; love,  faith,  truth  of  character,  the  aspira- 
tion of  man,  these  are  sacred  : nor  can  I detach 
one  duty,  like  you,  from  all  other  duties,  and 
concentrate  my  forces  mechanically  on  the  pay- 


278 


ESSAY  X. 


nient  of  moneys.  Let  me  live  onward  : you  shall 
find  that,  though  slower,  the  progress  of  my  char- 
acter will  liquidate  all  these  debts  without  injus- 
tice to  higher  claims.  If  a man  should  dedicate 
himself  to  the  payment  of  notes,  would  not  this 
be  injustice?  Owes  he  no  debt  but  money  ? And 
are  all  claims  on  him  to  be  postponed  to  a land- 
lord’s or  a banker’s? 

There  is  no  virtue  which  is  final ; all  are  initial. 
The  virtues  of  society  are  vices  of  the  saint.  The 
terror  of  reform  is  the  discovery  that  we  must 
cast  away  our  virtues,  or  what  we  have  always 
esteemed  such,  into  the  same  pit  that  has  con- 
sumed our  grosser  vices. 

“ Forgive  his  crimes,  forgive  his  virtues  too, 

Those  smaller  faults,  half  converts  to  the  right.’ 

It  is  the  highest  power  of  divine  moments  that 
they  abolish  our  contritions  also.  I accuse  my- 
self of  sloth  and  unprofitableness,  day  by  day ; 
but  when  these  waves  of  God  flow  into  me,  I no 
longer  reckon  lost  time.  I no  longer  poorly 
compute  my  possible  achievement  by  what 
remains  to  me  of  the  month  or  the  year; 
for  these  moments  confer  a sort  of  omnipresence 
and  omnipotence,  which  asks  nothing  of  duration, 
but  sees  that  the  energy  of  the  mind  is  commen- 
surate with  the  work  to  be  done,  without  time. 

And  thus,  O circular  philosopher,  I hear  some 
reader  exclaim,  you  have  arrived  at  a fine  Pyr- 
rhonism, at  an  equivalence  and  indifferency  of  all 
actions,  and  would  fain  teach  us,  that,  if  we  are 


CIRCLES. 


279 


true.,  forsooth,  our  crimes  may  be  lively  stones  out 
of  which  we  shall  construct  the  temple  of  the  true 
God. 

I am  not  careful  to  justify  myself.  I own  I am 
gladdened  by  seeing  the  predominance  of  the 
saccharine  principle  throughout  vegetable  nature, 
and  not  less  by  beholding  in  morals  that  unre- 
strained inundation  of  the  principle  of  good  into 
every  chink  and  hole  that  selfishness  has  left 
open,  yea,  into  selfishness  and  sin  itself;  so  that 
no  evil  is  pure  ; nor  hell  itself  without  its  extreme 
satisfactions.  But  lest  I should  mislead  any  when 
I have  my  own  head,  and  obey  my  whims,  let  me 
remind  the  reader  that  lam  only  an  experimenter. 
Do  not  set  the  least  value  on  what  I do,  or  the 
least  discredit  on  what  I do  not,  as  if  I pretended 
to  settle  anything  as  true  or  false.  I unsettle  all 
things.  No  facts  are  to  me  sacred  ; none  are  pro- 
fane ; I simply  experiment,  an  endless  seeker, 
with  no  Past  at  my  back. 

Yet  this  incessant  movement  and  progresion, 
which  all  things  partake,  could  never  become 
sensible  to  us,  but  by  contrast  to  some  principle 
of  fixture  or  stability  in  the  soul.  Whilst  the 
eternal  generation  of  circles  proceeds,  the  eternal 
generator  abides.  That  central  life  is  somewhat 
superior  to  creation,  superior  to  knowledge  and 
thought,  and  contains  all  its  circles.  Forever  it 
labors  to  create  a life  and  thought  as  large  and 
excellent  as  itself ; but  in  vain ; for  that  which  is 
made,  instructs  how  to  make  a better. 

Thus  there  is  no  sleep,  no  pause,  no  preserva- 


28o 


ESSAY  X. 


tion,  but  all  things  renew,  germinate,  and  spring. 
Why  should  we  import  rags  and  relics  into  the 
new  hour?  Nature  abhors  the  old,  and  old  age 
seems  the  only  disease ; all  others  run  into  this 
one.  We  call  it  by  many  names,  fever,  intemper- 
ance, insanity,  stupidity,  and  crime ; they  are  all 
forms  of  old  age ; they  are  rest,  conservatism,  ap- 
propriation, inertia,  not  newness,  not  the  way  on- 
ward. We  grizzle  every  day.  I see  no  need  of 
it.  Whilst  we  converse  with  what  is  above  us, 
we  do  not  grow  old,  but  grow  young.  Infancy, 
youth,  re.ceptive,  aspiring,  with  religious  eye  look- 
ing upward,  counts  itself  nothing,  and  abandons 
itself  to  the  instruction  flowing  from  all  sides. 
But  the  man  and  woman  of  seventy,  assume  to 
know  all ; throw  up  their  hope;  renounce  aspira- 
tion; accept  the  actual  for  the  necessary;  and 
talk  down  to  the  young.  Let  them  then  become 
organs  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; let  tliem  be  lovers  ; 
let  them  behold  truth  ; and  their  eyes  are  uplifted, 
their  wrinkles  smoothed,  they  are  perfumed  again 
with  hope  and  power.  This  old  age  ought  not  to 
creep  on  a human  mind.  In  nature,  every  mo- 
ment is  new ; the  past  is  always  swallowed  and 
forgotten  ; the  coming  only  is  sacred.  Nothing  is 
secure  but  life,  transition,  the  energizing  spirit. 
No  love  can  be  bound  by  oath  or  convenant  to 
secure  it  against  a higher  love.  No  truth  so 
sublime  but  it  may  be  trivial  to-morrow  in  the 
light  of  new  thoughts.  People  wish  to  be  set- 
tled ; only  as  far  as  they  are  unsettled,  is  there 
any  hope  for  them. 


CIRCLES, 


281 


Life  is  a series  of  surprises.  We  do  not  guess 
to-day  the  mood,  the  pleasure,  the  power  of  to- 
morrow, when  we  are  building  up  our  being.  Of 
lower  states, — of  acts  of  routine  and  sense,  we 
can  tell  somewhat,  but  the  master-pieces  of  God, 
the  total  growths,  and  universal  movements  of  the 
soul,  he  hideth  ; they  are  incalculable.  I can 
know  that  truth  is  divine  and  helpful,  but  how  it 
shall  help  me,  I can  have  no  guess,  for,  so  to  he  is 
the  sole  inlet  of  so  to  know.  The  new  position  of 
the  advancing  man  has  all  the  powers  of  the  old, 
yet  has  them  all  new.  It  carries  in  its  bosom  all 
the  energies  of  the  past,  yet  is  itself  an  exhala- 
tion of  the  morning.  I cast  away  in  this  new  mo- 
ment all  my  once  hoarded  knowledge,  as  vacant 
and  vain.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  seem  I to  know 
anything  rightly.  The  simplest  words, — we  do 
not  know  what  they  mean,  except  when  we  love 
and  aspire. 

The  difference  between  talents  and  character  is 
adroitness  to  keep  the  old  and  trodden  round,  and 
power  and  courage  to  make  a new  road  to  new 
and  better  goals.  Character  makes  an  overpow- 
ering present,  a cheerful,  determined  hour,  which 
fortifies  all  the  company,  by  making  them  see  that 
much  is  possible  and  excellent,  that  was  not 
thought  of.  Character  dulls  the  impression  of 
particular  events.  When  we  see  the  conqueror, 
we  do  not  think  much  of  any  one  battle  or  suc- 
cess. We  see  that  we  had  exaggerated  the  diffi- 
culty. It  was  easy  to  him.  The  great  man  is  not 
convulsible  or  tormentable.  He  is  so  much,  that 


282 


ESSAY  X, 


events  pass  over  him  without  much  impression. 
People  say  sometimes,  “See  what  I have  over- 
come ; see  how  cheerful  I am ; see  how  completely 
I have  triumphed  over  these  black  events.”  Not 
if  they  still  remind  me  of  the  black  event, — they 
have  not  yet  conquered.  Is  it  conquest  to  be  a 
gay  and  decorated  sepulchre,  or  a half-crazed 
widow  hysterically  laughing?  True  conquest  is 
the  causing  the  black  event  to  fade  and  disappear 
as  an  early  cloud  of  insignificant  result  in  a his- 
tory so  large  and  advancing. 

The  one  thing  which  we  seek  with  insatiable 
desire,  is  to  forget  ourselves,  to  be  surprised  out 
of  our  propriety,  to  lose  our  sempiternal  memory, 
and  do  something  without  knowing  how  or  why; 
in  short,  to  draw  a new  circle.  Nothing  great  was 
ever  achieved  without  enthusiasm.  The  way  of 
life  is  wonderful.  It  is  by  abandonment.  The 
great  moments  of  history  are  the  facilities  of  per- 
formance through  the  strength  of  ideas,  as  the 
works  of  genius  and  religion.  “A  man,”  said 
Oliver  Cromwell,  “ never  rises  so  high  as  when  he 
knows  not  whither  he  is  going.”  Dreams  and 
drunkenness,  the  use  of  opium  and  alcohol  are 
the  semblance  and  counterfeit  of  this  oracular 
genius,  and  hence  their  dangerous  attraction  for 
men.  For  the  like  reason,  they  ask  the  aid  of 
wild  passions,  as  in  gaming  and  war,  to  ape  in 
some  manner  these  flames  and  generosities  of  the 
heart. 


INTELLECT 


/ 


INTELLECT. 


Every  substance  is  negatively  electric  to  that 
which  stands  above  it  in  the  chemical  tables,  posi- 
tively to  that  which  stands  below  it.  Water  dis- 
solves wood  and  stone,  and  salt;  air  dissolves 
water;  electric  fire  dissolves  air,  but  the  intellect 
dissolves  fire,  gravity,  laws,  method,  and  the  sub- 
tlest unnamed  relations  of  nature  in  its  resistless 
menstruum.  Intellect  lies  behind  genius,  which 
is  intellect  constructive.  Intellect  is  the  simple 
power  anterior  to  all  action  or  construction. 
Gladly  would  I unfold  in  calm  degrees  a natural 
history  of  the  intellect,  but  what  man  has  yet  been 
able  to  mark  the  steps  and  boundaries  of  that 
transparent  essence  ? The  first  questions  are  al- 
ways to  be  asked,  and  the  wisest  doctor  is  grav- 
elled by  the  inquisitiveness  of  a child.  How  can 
we  speak  of  the  action  of  the  mind  under  any  di- 
visions, as,  of  its  knowledge,  of  its  ethics,  of  its 
works,  and  so  forth,  since  it  melts  will  into  per- 
ception, knowledge  into  a6t  ? Each  becomes 
the  other.  Itself  alone  is.  Its  vision  is  not  like 
the  vision  of  the  eye,  but  is  union  with  the  things 
known. 


(285) 


286 


ESS  A V XL 


Intellect  and  intellection  signify,  to  the  com- 
mon ear,  consideration  of  abstract  truth.  The 
consideration  of  time  and  place,  of  you  and  me, 
of  profit  and  hurt,  tyrannize  over  most  men’s 
minds.  Intellect  separates  the  fact  considered 
from  you^  from  all  local  and  personal  reference, 
and  discerns  it  as  if  it  existed  for  its  own  sake. 
Heraclitus  looked  upon  the  affections  as  dense  and 
colored  mists.  In  the  fog  of  good  and  evil  affec- 
tions, it  is  hard  for  man  to  walk  forward  in  a 
straight  line.  Intellect  is  void  of  affection,  and 
sees  an  object  as  it  stands  in  the  light  of  science, 
cool  and  disengaged.  The  intellect  goes  out  of 
the  individual,  floats  over  its  own  personality,  and 
regards  it  as  a fact,  and  not  as  I and  mine.  He 
who  is  immersed  in  what  concerns  person  or  place, 
cannot  see  the  problem  of  existence.  This  the 
intellect  always  ponders.  Nature  shows  all  things 
formed  and  bound.  The  intellect  pierces  the 
form,  overleaps  the  wall,  detects  intrinsic  likeness 
between  remote  things,  and  reduces  all  things  into 
a few  principles. 

The  making  a fact  the  subject  of  thought, 
raises  it.  All  that  mass  of  mental  and  moral  phe- 
nomena which  we  do  not  make  objects  of  voluntary 
thought,  come  within  the  power  of  fortune;  they 
constitute  the  circumstance  of  daily  life;  they  are 
subject  to  change,  to  fear,  and  hope.  Every  man 
beholds  his  human  condition  wdth  a degree  of 
melancholy.  As  a ship  aground  is  battered  by 
the  waves,  so  man,  imprisoned  in  mortal  life,  lies 
open  to  the  mercy  of  coming  events.  But  a 


INTELLECT, 


287 


truth,  separated  by  the  intellect,  is  no  longer  a 
subject  of  destiny.  We  behold  it  as  a god  up- 
raised above  care  and  fear.  And  so  any  fact  in 
our  life,  or  any  record  of  our  fancies  or  reflec- 
tions, disentangled  from  the  web  of  our  uncon- 
sciousness, becomes  an  object  impersonal  and  im- 
mortal. It  is  the  past  restored,  but  embalmed. 
A better  art  than  that  of  Egypt  has  taken  fear 
and  corruption  out  of  it.  It  is  eviscerated  of  care. 
It  is  offered  for  science.  What  is  addressed  to  us 
for  contemplation  does  not  threaten  us,  but  makes 
us  intellectual  beings. 

The  growth  of  the  intellect  is  spontaneous  in 
every  step.  The  mind  that  grows  could  not  pre- 
dict the  times,  the  means,  the  mode  of  that  spon- 
taneity. God  enters  by  a private  door  into  every 
individual.  Long  prior  to  the  age  of  reflection,  is 
the  thinking  of  the  mind.  Out  of  darkness,  it  came 
insensibly  into  the  marvellous  light  of  to-day. 
Over  it  always  reigned  a firm  law.  In  the  period 
of  infancy  it  accepted  and  disposed  of  all  impresv 
sions  from  the  surrounding  creation  after  its  own 
way.  Whatever  any  mind  doth  or  saith,  is  after 
a law.  It  has  no  random  act  or  word.  And  this 
native  law  remains  over  it  after  it  has  come  to  re- 
flection or  conscious  thought.  In  the  most  worn, 
pedantic,  introverted,  self-tormentor’s  life,  the 
greatest  part  is  incalculable  by  him,  unforeseen,  un- 
imaginable, and  must  be,  until  he  can  take  him- 
self up  by  his  own  ears.  What  am  I ? What  has 
my  will  done  to  make  me  that  I am  ? Nothing. 
I have  been  floated  into  this  thought,  this  hour, 


288 


ESS  A V XI. 


this  connection  of  events,  by  might  and  mind 
sublime,  and  my  ingenuity  and  wilfulness  have  not 
thwarted,  have  not  aided  to  an  appreciable  degree. 

Our  spontaneous  action  is  always  the  best.  You 
cannot,  with  your  best  deliberation  and  heed, 
come  so  close  to  any  question  as  your  spontaneous 
glance  shall  bring  you,  whilst  you  rise  from  5^our 
bed,  or  walk  abroad  in  the  morning  after  medita- 
ting the  matter  before  sleep,  on  the  previous 
night.  Always  our  thinking  is  a pious  reception. 
Out  truth  of  thought  is  therefore  vitiated  as  much 
by  too  violent  direction  given  by  our  will,  as  by 
too  great  negligence.  We  do  not  determine  what 
we  will  think.  We  only  open  our  senses,  clear 
away,  as  we  can,  all  obstruction  from  the  fact,  and 
suffer  the  intellect  to  see.  We  have  little  control 
over  our  thoughts.  We  are  the  prisoners  of  ideas. 
They  catch  us  up  for  moments  into  their  heaven, 
and  so  fully  engage  us,  that  we  take  no  thought 
for  the  morrow,  gaze  like  children,  without  an 
effort  to  make  them  our  own.  By-and  by  we  fall 
out  of  that  rapture,  bethink  us  where  we  have 
been,  what  we  have  seen,  and  repeat,  as  truly  as 
we  can,  what  we  have  beheld.  As  far  as  w'e  can 
recall  these  ecstasies,  we  carry  away  in  the  inef- 
faceable memory,  the  result,  and  all  men  and  all 
the  ages  confirm  it.  It  is  called  Truth.  But  the 
moment  we  cease  to  report,  and  attempt  to  correct 
and  contrive,  it  is  not  truth. 

If  we  consider  what  persons  have  stimulated 
and  profited  us,  we  shall  perceive  the  superiority 
of  the  spontaneous  or  intuitive  principle  over  the 


INTELLECT, 


289 


arithmetical  or  logical.  The  first  always  contains 
the  second,  but  virtual  and  latent.  We  want,  in 
every  man,  a long  logic  ; we  cannot  pardon  the 
absence  of  it,  but  it  must  not  be  spoken.  Logic 
is  the  procession  or  proportionate  unfolding  of  the 
intuition;  but  its  virtue  is  as  silent  method ; the 
moment  it  would  appear  as  propositions,  and  have 
a separate  value,  it  is  worthless. 

In  every  man’s  mind,  some  images,  words,  and 
facts  remain,  without  effort  on  his  part  to  imprint 
them,  which  others  forget,  and  afterwards  these 
illustrate  to  him  important  laws.  All  our  prog- 
ress is  an  unfolding,  like  the  vegetable  bud.  You 
have  first  an  instinct,  then  an  opinion,  then  a 
knowledge,  as  the  plant  has  root,  bud,  and  fruit. 
Trust  the  instinct  to  the  end,  though  you  can  ren- 
der no  reason.  It  is  vain  to  hurry  it.  By  trust- 
ing it  to  the  end,  it  shall  ripen  into  truth,  and  you 
shall  know  why  you  believe. 

Each  mind  has  its  own  method.  A true  man 
never  acquires  after  college  rules.  What  you  have 
aggregated  in  a natural  manner,  surprises  and  de- 
lights when  it  is  produced.  For  we  cannot  over- 
see each  other’s  secret.  And  hence  the  differences 
between  men  in  natural  endowment  are  insignifi- 
cant in  comparison  with  their  common  wealth. 
Do  you  think  the  porter  and  the  cook  have  no  an- 
ecdotes, no  experiences,  no  wonders  for  you? 
Everybody  knows  as  much  as  the  savant.  The 
walls  of  rude  minds  are  scrawled  all  over  with 
facts,  with  thoughts.  They  shall  one  day  bring  a 
lantern  and  read  the  inscriptions.  Every  man,  iu 

19 


290 


ESS  A V XL 


the  degree  in  which  he  has  wit  and  culture,  finds 
his  curiosity  inflamed  concerning  the  modes  of 
living  and  thinking  of  other  men,  and  especially 
of  those  classes  whose  minds  have  not  been  sub- 
dued by  the  drill  of  school  education. 

This  instinctive  action  never  ceases  in  a healthy 
mind,  but  becomes  richer  and  more  frequent  in  its 
informations  through  all  states  of  culture.  At 
last  comes  the  era  of  reflection,  when  we  not  onty 
observe,  but  take  pains  to  observe ; when  we  of 
set  purpose,  sit  down  to  consider  an  abstract 
truth ; when  we  keep  the  mind’s  eye  open,  whilst 
we  converse,  whilst  we  read,  whilst  we  act,  inte'nt 
to  learn  the  secret  law  of  some  class  of  facts. 

What  is  the  hardest  task  in  the  world?  To 
think.  I would  put  myself  in  the  attitude  to 
look  in  the  eye  an  abstract  truth,  and  I cannot. 
I blench  and  withdraw  on  this  side  and  on  that. 
I seem  to  know  what  he  meant,  who  said.  No  man 
can  see  God  face  to  face  and  live.  For  example, 
a man  explores  the  basis  of  civil  government.  Let 
him  intend  his  mind  without  respite,  without  rest, 
in  one  direction.  His  best  heed  long  time  avails 
him  nothing.  Yet  thoughts  are  flitting  before  him. 
We  all  but  apprehend,  we  dimly  forebode  the 
truth.  We  say,  I will  walk  abroad,  and  the  truth 
will  take  form  and  clearness  to  me.  We  go  forth, 
but  cannot  find  it.  It  seems  as  if  we  needed  only 
the  stillness  and  composed  attitude  of  the  library, 
to  seize  the  thought.  But  we  come  in,  and  are 
as  far  from  it  as  at  first.  Then,  in  a moment, 
and  unannounced,  the  truth  appears.  A certain, 


INTELLECT. 


291 


wandering  light  appears,  and  is  the  distinction, 
the  principle  we  wanted.  But  the  oracle  comes, 
because  we  had  previously  laid  siege  to  the  shrine. 
It  seems  as  if  the  law  of  the  intellect  resembled 
that  law  of  nature  by  which  we  now  inspire,  now 
expire  the  breath ; by  which  the  heart  now  draws 
in,  then  hurls  out  the  blood, — the  law  of  undula- 
tion. So  now  you  must  labor  with  your  brains, 
and  now  you  must  forbear  your  activity,  and  see 
what  the  great  Soul  showeth. 

Our  intellections  are  mainly  prospective.  The 
immortality  of  man  is  as  legitimately  preached 
from  the  intellections  as  from  the  moral  volitions. 
Every  intellection  is  mainly  prospective.  Its 
present  value  is  its  least.  It  is  a little  seed.  In- 
spect what  delights  you  in  Plutarch,  in  Shakes- 
peare, in  Cervantes.  Each  truth  that  a writer  ac- 
quires, is  a lantern  which  he  instantly  turns  full 
on  what  facts  and  thoughts  lay  already  in  his 
mind,  and  behold,  all  the  mats  and  rubbish  which 
had  littered  his  garret,  become  precious.  Every 
trivial  fact  in  his  private  biography  becomes  an  il- 
lustration of  this  new  principle,  revisits  the  day, 
and  delights  all  men  by  its  piquancy  and  ne\v 
charm.  Men  say,  where  did  he  get  this?  and  think 
there  was  something  divine  in  his  life.  But  no  ; 
they  have  myriads  of  facts  just  as  good,  would 
they  only  get  a lamp  to  ransack  their  attic  withal. 

We  are  all  wise.  The  difference  between  per- 
sons is  not  in  wisdom  but  in  art.  I knew,  in  an 
academical  club,  a person  who  always  deferred  to 
me,  who,  seeing  my  whim  for  writing,  fancied  that 


292 


ESS  A V XL 


my  experiences  had  somewhat  superior  ; whilst  I 
saw  that  his  experiences  were  as  good  as  mine. 
Give  them  to  me,  and  I w’ould  make  the  same  use 
of  them.  He  held  the  old  ; he  holds  the  new  ; I 
had  the  habit  of  tacking  together  the  old  and  the 
new,  which  he  did  not  use  to  exercise.  This  may 
hold  in  the  great  examples.  Perhaps  if  we  should 
meet  Shakespeare,  we  should  not  be  conscious  of 
any  steep  inferiority ; no,  but  of  a great  equality, 
— only  that  he  possessed  a strange  skill  of  using, 
of  classifying  his  facts,  which  we  lack.  For,  not- 
withstanding our  utter  incapacity  to  produce  any- 
thing like  Hamlet  and  Othello,  see  the  perfect 
reception  this  wit,  and  immense  knowledge  of  life 
and  liquid  eloquence  find  in  us  all. 

If  you  gather  apples  in  the  sunshine,  or  make 
hay,  or  hoe  corn,  and  then  retire  within  doors,  and 
shut  your  eyes,  and  press  them  with  your  hand,  you 
shall  still  see  apples  hanging  in  the  bright  light, 
with  boughs  and  leaves  thereto,  or  the  tasselled 
grass,  or  the  corn-flags,  and  this  for  five  or  six  hours 
afterwards.  There  lie  the  impressions  on  the  reten- 
tive organ,  though  you  knew  it  not.  So  lies  the 
whole  series  of  natural  images  with  which  your  life 
has  made  you  acquainted,  in  your  memory,  though 
you  know  it  not,  and  a thrill  of  passion  flashes  light 
on  their  dark  chamber,  and  the  active  power  seizes 
instantly  the  fit  image,  as  the  word  of  its  moment- 
ary thought. 

It  is  long  ere  we  discover  how  rich  we  are.  Our 
history,  we  are  sure,  is  quite  tame.  We  have 
nothing  to  write,  nothing  to  infer.  But  our  wiser 


INTELLECT, 


293 


years  still  run  back  to  the  despised  recollections  of 
childhood,  and  always  we  are  fishing  up  some  won- 
derful article  out  of  that  pond  ; until,  by-and-by, 
we  begin  to  suspect  that  the  biography  of  the  one 
foolish  person  we  know,  is,  in  reality,  nothing  less 
than  the  miniature  paraphrase  of  the  hundred  vol- 
umes of  the  Universal  History. 

In  the  intellect  constructive,  which  we  popu- 
larly designate  by  the  word  Genius,  we  observe 
the  same  balance  of  two  elements,  as  in  intellect 
receptive.  The  constructive  intellect  produces 
thoughts,  sentences,  poems,  plans,  designs,  sys- 
tems. It  is  the  generation  of  the  mind,  the  mar- 
riage of  thought  with  nature.  To  genius  must 
always  go  two  gifts,  the  thought  and  the  publica- 
tion. The  first  is  revelation,  always  a miracle, 
which  no  frequency  of  occurrence,  or  incessant 
study  can  ever  familiarize,  but  which  must  always 
leave  the  inquirer  stupid  with  wonder.  It  is  the 
advent  of  truth  into  the  world,  a form  of  thought 
now,  for  the  first  time,,  bursting  into  the  universe, 
a child  of  the  old  eternal  soul,  a piece  of  genuine 
and  immeasurable  greatness.  It  seems,  for  the 
time,  to  inherit  all  that  has  yet  existed,  and  to 
dictate  to  the  unborn.  It  affects  every  thought 
of  man,  and  goes  to  fashion  every  institution. 
But  to  make  it  available,  it  needs  a vehicle  or  art  by 
which  it  is  conveyed  to  men.  To  be  communica- 
ble, it  must  become  picture  or  sensible  object. 
We  must  learn  the  language  of  facts.  The  most 
wonderful  inspirations  die  with  their  subject,  if  he 
has  no  hand  to  paint  them  to  the  senses.  The  ray 


294 


ESS  A y XL 


of  light  passes  invisible  through  space,  and  only 
when  it  falls  on  an  object  is  it  seen.  When  the 
spiritual  energy  is  directed  on  something  outward, 
then  is  it  a thought.  The  relation  between  it 
and  you,  first  makes  you,  the  value  of  you,  ap- 
parent to  me.  The  rich,  inventive  genius  of  the 
painter  must  be  smothered  and  lost  for  want  of 
the  power  of  drawing,  and  in  our  happy  hours,  we 
should  be  inexhaustible  poets,  if  once  we  could 
break  through  the  silence  into  adequate  rhyme. 
As  all  men  have  some  access  to  primary  truth, 
so  all  have  some  art  or  power  of  communication 
in  their  head,  but  only  in  the  artist  does  it  descend 
into  the  hand.  There  is  an  inequality  whose  laws 
we  do  not  yet  know,  between  two  men  and  be- 
tween two  moments  of  the  same  man,  in  respect 
to  this  faculty.  In  common  hours,  we  have  the 
same  facts  as  in  the  uncommon  or  inspired,  but 
they  do  not  sit  for  their  portraits,  they  are  not  de- 
tached, but  lie  in  a web.  The  thought  of  genius 
is  spontaneous ; but  the  power  of  picture  or  ex- 
pression, in  the  most  enriched  and  flowing  nature, 
implies  a mixture  of  will,  a certain  control  over  the 
spontaneous  states,  without  which  no  production  is 
possible.  It  is  a conversion  of  all  nature  into  the 
rhetoric  of  thought,  under  the  eye  of  judgment, 
with  a strenuous  exercise  of  choice.  And  yet  the 
imaginative  vocabulary  seems  to  be  spontaneous 
also.  It  does  not  flow  from  experience  only  or 
mainly,  but  from  a richer  source.  Not  by  any 
conscious  imitation  of  particular  forms  are  the 
grand  strokes  of  the  painter  executed,  but  by  re- 


INTELLECT, 


295 


pairing  to  the  fountain-head  of  all  forms  in  his 
mind.  Who  is  the  first  drawing-master  ? With- 
out instruction  we  know  very  well  the  ideal  of 
the  human  form.  A child  knows  if  an  arm  or  a 
leg  be  distorted  in  a picture,  if  the  attitude  be 
natural,  or  grand,  or  mean,  though  he  has  never 
received  any  instruction  in  drawing,  or  heard  any 
conversation  on  the  subject,  nor  can  himself  draw 
with  correctness  a single  feature.  A good  form 
strikes  all  eyes  pleasantly,  long  before  they  have 
any  science  on  the  subject,  and  a beautiful  face 
sets  twenty  hearts  in  palpitation,  prior  to  all  con- 
sideration of  the  mechanical  proportions  of  the 
features  and  head.  We  may  owe  to  dreams  some 
light  on  the  fountain  of  this  skill ; for,  as  soon  as 
we  let  our  will  go,  and  let  the  unconscious  states 
ensue,  see  what  cunning  draughtsmen  we  are ! 
We  entertain  ourselves  with  wonderful  forms  of 
men,  of  women,  of  animals,  of  gardens,  of  woods, 
and  of  monsters,  and  the  mystic  pencil  where- 
with we  then  draw,  has  no  awkwardness,  or  inex- 
perience, no  meagreness  or  poverty ; it  can  design 
well,  and  group  well ; its  composition  is  full  of 
art,  its  colors  are  well  laid  on,  and  the  whole  canvas 
which  it  paints,  is  life-like,  and  apt  to  touch  us 
with  terror,  with  tenderness,  with  desire,  and  with 
grief.  Neither  are  the  artist’s  copies  from  experi- 
ence, ever  mere  copies,  but  always  touched  and 
softened  by  tints  from  this  ideal  domain. 

The  conditions  essential  to  a constructive  mind, 
do  not  appear  to  be  so  often  combined  but  that  a 
good  sentence  or  verse  remains  fresh  and  memor- 


296 


ESS  A V XI, 


able  for  a long  time.  Yet  when  we  write  with 
ease,  and  come  out  into  the  free  air  of  thought,  we 
seem  to  be  assured  that  nothing  is  easier  than  to 
continue  this  communication  at  pleasure.  Up, 
down,  around,  the  kingdom  of  thought  has  no  en- 
closures, but  the  Muse  makes  us  free  of  her  city. 
Well,  the  world  has  a million  writers.  One  would 
think,  then,  that  good  thought  would  be  as  famil- 
iar as  air  and  water,  and  the  gifts  of  each  new 
hour  would  exclude  the  last.  Yet  we  can  count 
all  our  good  books ; nay,  I remember  any  beauti- 
ful verse  for  twenty  years.  It  is  true  that  the 
discerning  intellect  of  the  world  is  always  greatly 
in  advance  of  the  creative,  so  that  always  there 
are  many  competent  judges  of  the  best  book,  and 
few  writers  of  the  best  books.  But  some  of  the 
conditions  of  intellectual  construction  are  of  rare 
occurrence.  The  intellect  is  a whole,  and  de- 
mands integrity  in  every  work.  This  is  resisted 
equally  by  a man’s  devotion  to  a single  thought, 
and  by  his  ambition  to  combine  too  many. 

Truth  is  our  element  of  life,  yet  if  a man  fasten 
his  attention  on  a single  aspect  of  truth,  and  ap- 
ply himself  to  that  alone  for  a long  time,  the  truth 
becomes  distorted  and  not  itself,  but  falsehood  ; 
herein  resembling  the  air,  which  is  our  natural 
element,  and  the  breath  of  our  nostrils,  but  if  a 
stream  of  the  same  be  directed  on  the  body  for  a 
time,  it  causes  cold,  fever,  and  even  death.  How 
wearisome  the  grammarian,  the  phrenologist,  the 
political  or  religious  fanatic,  or  indeed  any  pos- 
sessed mortal,  whose  balance  is  lost  by  the  exag- 


INTELLECT, 


297 


geration  of  a single  topic.  It  is  incipient  insanity. 
Every  thought  is  a prison  also.  I cannot  see  what 
you  see,  because  I am  caught  up  by  a strong  wind 
and  blown  so  far  in  one  direction,  that  I am  out 
of  the  hoop  of  your  horizon. 

Is  it  any  better,  if  the  student,  to  avoid  this 
offence,  and  to  liberalize  himself,  aims  to  make  a 
mechanical  whole,  of  history,  or  science,  or  phil- 
osophy, by  a numerical  addition  of  all  the  facts 
that  fall  within  his  vision?  The  world  refuses  to 
be  analyzed  by  addition  and  subtraction.  When 
we  are  young,  we  spend  much  time  and  pains  in 
filling  our  note-books  with  all  definitions  of  Re- 
ligion, Love,  Poetry,  Politics,  Art,  in  the  hope 
that  in  the  course  of  a few  years,  we  shall  have 
condensed  into  our  encyclopedia,  the  net  value  of 
all  the  theories  at  which  the  world  has  yet  arrived. 
But  year  after  year  our  tables  get  no  complete- 
ness, and  at  last  we  discover  that  our  curve  is  a 
parabola,  whose  arcs  will  never  meet. 

Neither  by  detachment,  neither  by  aggregation, 
is  the  integrity  of  the  intellect  transmitted  to  its 
works,  but  by  a vigilance  which  brings  the  intel- 
lect in  its  greatness  and  best  state  to  operate  every 
moment.  It  must  have  the  same  wholeness  which 
nature  has.  Although  no  diligence  can  rebuild 
the  universe  in  a model,  by  the  best  accumulation 
or  disposition  of  details,  yet  does  the  world  reap- 
pear in  miniature  in  every  event,  so  that  all  the 
laws  of  nature  may  be  read  in  the  smallest  fact. 
The  intellect  must  have  the  like  perfection  in  its 
apprehension,  and  in  its  works.  For  this  reason, 


298 


ESS  A V XL 


an  index  or  mercury  of  intellectual  proficiency  is 
the  perception  of  identity.  We  talk  with  accom- 
plished persons  who  appear  to  be  strangers  in  na- 
ture. The  cloud,  the  tree,  the  turf,  the  bird  are 
not  theirs,  have  nothing  of  them : the  world  is 
only  their  lodging  and  table.  But  the  poet,  whose 
verses  are  to  be  spheral  and  complete,  is  one 
whom  nature  cannot  deceive,  whatsoever  face  of 
strangeness  she  may  put  on.  He  feels  a strict 
consangninity,  and  detects  more  likeness  than 
variety  in  all  her  changes.  We  are  stung  by  the 
desire  for  new  thought,  but  when  we  receive  a 
new  thought,  it  is  only  the  old  thought  with  a 
new  face,  and  though  we  make  it  our  own,  we  in- 
stantly crave  another ; we  are  not  really  enriched. 
For  the  truth  was  in  us,  before  it  was  reflected  to 
us  from  natural  objects;  and  the  profound  genius 
will  cast  the  likeness  of  all  creatures  into  every 
product  of  his  wit. 

But  if  the  constructive  powers  are  rare,  and  it 
is  given  to  few  men  to  be  poets,  yet  every  man  is 
a receiver  of  this  descending  holy  ghost,  and  may 
well  study  the  laws  of  its  influx.  Exactly  paral- 
lel is  the  whole  rule  of  intellectual  duty,  to  the 
rule  of  moral  duty.  A self-denial,  no  less  austere 
than  the  saint’s,  is  demanded  of  the  scholar.  He 
must  worship  truth,  and  forego  all  things  for  that, 
and  choose  defeat  and  pain,  so  that  his  treasure 
in  thought  is  thereby  augmented. 

God  offers  to  every  mind  its  choice  between 
truth  and  repose.  Take  which  you  please, — you 
can  never  have  both.  Between  these,  as  a pen- 


INTELLECT. 


299 


dulum,  man  oscillates  ever.  He  in  whom  the 
love  of  repose  predominates,  will  accept  the  first 
creed,  the  first  philosophy,  the  first  political  party 
he  meets, — most  likely,  his  father’s.  He  gets  rest, 
commodity,  and  reputation  ; but  he  shuts  the  door 
of  truth.  He  in  whom  the  love  of  truth  predom- 
inates, will  keep  himself  aloof  from  all  moorings 
and  afloat.  He  will  abstain  from  dogmatism,  and 
recognize  all  the  opposite  negations  between 
which,  as  walls,  his  being  is  swung.  He  submits 
to  the  inconvenience  of  suspense  and  imperfect 
opinion,  but  he  is  a candidate  for  truth,  as  the 
other  is  not,  and  respects  the  highest  law  of  his 
being. 

Tlie  circle  of  the  green  earth  he  must  measure 
with  his  shoes,  to  find  the  man  who  can  yield  him 
truth.  He  shall  then  know  that  there  is  some- 
what more  blessed  and  great  in  hearing  than  in 
speaking.  Happy  is  the  hearing  man:  unhappy 
the  speaking  man.  As  long  as  I hear  truth,  I am 
bathed  by  a beautiful  element,  and  am  not  con- 
scious of  any  limits  to  my  nature.  The  sugges* 
tions  are  thousandfold  that  I hear  and  see.  The 
waters  of  the  great  deep  have  ingress  and 
egress  to  the  soul.  But  if  I speak,  I define,  I 
confine,  and  am  less.  When  Socrates  speaks, 
Lysis  and  Menexenus  are  afflicted  by  no  shame 
that  they  do  not  speak.  They  also  are  good.  He 
likewise  defers  to  them,  loves  them,  whilst  he 
speaks.  Because  a true  and  natural  man  contains 
and  is  the  same  truth  which  an  eloquent  man  ar- 
ticulates : but  in  the  eloquent  man,  because  he 


300 


ESS  A Y XL 


can  articulate  it,  it  seems  something  the  less  to 
reside,  and  he  turns  to  these  silent  beautiful  with 
the  more  inclination  and  respect.  The  ancient 
sentence  said,  Let  us  be  silent,  for  so  are  the  gods. 
Silence  is  a solvent  that  destroys  personality,  and 
gives  us  leave  to  be  great  and  universal.  Every 
man’s  progress  is  through  a succession  of  teachers, 
each  of  whom  seems  at  the  time  to  have  a super- 
lative influence,  but  it  at  last  gives  place  to  a new. 
Frankly  let  him  accept  it  all.  Jesus  says,  Leave 
father,  mother,  house  and  lands,  and  follow  me. 
Who  leaves  all,  receives  more.  This  is  as  true 
intellectually,  as  morally.  Each  new  mind  we 
approach,  seems  to  require  an  abdication  of  all  our 
past  and  present  possessions.  A new  doctrine 
seems,  at  first,  a subversion  of  all  our  opinions, 
tastes,  and  manner  of  living.  Such  has  Sweden- 
borg, such  has  Kant,  such  has  Coleridge,  such  has 
Cousin  seemed  to  many  young  men  in  this  coun- 
tvy.  Take  thankfully  and  heartily  all  they  can 
give.  Exhaust  them,  wrestle  with  them,  let  them 
not  go  until  their  blessing  be  won,  and  after  a 
short  season,  the  dismay  will  be  overpast,  the  ex- 
cess of  influence  withdrawn,  and  they  will  be  no 
longer  an  alarming  meteor,  but  one  more  bright 
star  shining  serenely  in  your  heaven,  and  blend- 
ing its  light  with  all  your  day. 

But  whilst  he  gives  himself  up  unreservedly  to 
that  which  draws  him,  because  that  is  his  own,  he 
is  to  refuse  himself  to  that  which  draws  him  not, 
whatsoever  fame  and  authority  may  attend  it,  be- 
cause it  is  not  his  own.  Entire  self-reliance  belongs 


INTELLECT, 


301 


to  the  intellect.  One  soul  is  a counterpoise  of  all 
souls,  as  a capillary  column  of  water  is  a balance 
for  the  sea.  It  must  treat  things,  and  books,  and 
sovereign  genius,  as  itself  also  a sovereign.  If 
^schylus  be  that  man  he  is  taken  for,  he  has  not 
v^et  done  his  office,  when  he  has  educated  the 
learned  of  Europe  for  a thousand  years.  He  is  now 
to  approve  himself  a master  of  delight  to  me  also 
If  he  cannot  do  that,  all  his  fame  shall  avail  him 
nothing  with  me.  I were  a fool  not  to  sacrifice  a 
thousand  iEschyluses  to  my  intellectual  integrity. 
Especially  take  the  same  ground  in  regard  to  ab- 
stract truth,  the  science  of  the  mind.  The  Bacon, 
the  Spinoza,  the  Hume,  Schelling,  Kant,  or  who- 
soever propounds  to  you  a philosophy  of  the  mind, 
is  only  a more  or  less  awkward  translator  of  things 
ill  your  consciousness,  which  you  have  also  your 
way  of  seeing,  perhaps  of  denominating.  Say 
then,  instead  of  too  timidly  poring  into  his  obscure 
sense,  that  he  has  not  succeeded  in  rendering  back 
to  you  your  consciousness.  He  has  not  succeeded  ; 
now  let  another  try.  If  Plato  cannot,  perhaps 
Spinoza  will.  If  Spinoza  cannot,  then  perhaps 
Kant.  Anyhow,  when  at  last  it  is  done,  you  will 
find  it  is  no  recondite,  but  a simple,  natural,  com- 
mon state,  which  the  writer  restores  to  you. 

But  let  us  end  these  didactics.  I will  not, 
though  the  subject  might  provoke  it,  speak  to  the 
open  question  between  Truth  and  Love.  I shall 
not  presume  to  interfere  in  the  old  politics  of  the 
skies  ; The  cherubim  know  most ; the  seraphim 
love  most.”  The  gods  shall  settle  their  own  quar- 


302 


ESS  A V XI. 


rels.  But  I cannot  recite,  even  thus  rudely,  laws 
of  the  intellect,  without  remembering  that  lofty 
and  sequestered  class  of  men  who  have  been  its 
prophets  and  oracles,  the  high  priesthood  of  the 
pure  reason,  the  Trismegisti^  the  expounders  of  the 
principles  of  thought  from  age  to  age.  When  at 
long  intervals,  we  turn  over  their  abstruse  pages, 
wonderful  seems  the  calm  and  grand  air  of  these 
few,  these  great  spiritual  lords,  who  have  walked 
in  the  world, — these  of  the  old  religion, — dwelling 
in  a worship  which  makes  the  sanctities  of  Christi- 
anity look  parvenues  and  popular  ; for  ‘‘persuasion 
is  in  soul,  but  necessity  is  in  intellect.’*  This 
band  of  grandees,  Hermes,  Heraclitus,  Empedocles, 
Plato,  Plotinus,  Olympiodorus,  Proclus,  Synesius, 
and  the  rest,  have  somewhat  so  vast  in  their  logic, 
so  primary  in  their  thinking,  that  it  seems  antece- 
dent to  all  the  ordinary  distinctions  of  rhetoric 
and  literature,  and  to  be  at  once  poetry,  and 
music,  and  dancing,  and  astronomy,  and  mathe- 
matics. I am  present  at  the  sowing  of  the  seed  of 
the  world.  With  a geometry  of  sunbeams,  the 
soul  lays  the  foundations  of  nature.  The  truth 
and  grandeur  of  their  thought  is  proved  by  its 
scope  and  applicability,  for  it  commands  the  entire 
schedule  and  inventory  of  things,  for  its  illustra- 
tion. But  what  marks  its  elevation,  and  has  even 
a comic  look  to  us,  is  the  innocent  serenity  with 
which  these  babe-like  Jupiters  sit  in  their  clouds, 
and  from  age  to  age  prattle  to  each  other,  and  to 
no  contemporary.  Well  assured  that  their  speech 
is  intelligible,  and  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 


INTELLECT. 


303 


world,  they  add  thesis  to  thesis,  without  a mo- 
ment’s heed  of  the  universal  astonishment  of  the 
human  race  below,  who  do  not  comprehend  their 
plainest  argument ; nor  do  they  ever  relent  so 
much  as  to  insert  a popular  or  explaining  sen- 
tence ; nor  testify  the  least  displeasure  or  petu- 
lance at  the  dullness  of  their  amazed  auditory. 
The  angels  are  so  enamored  of  the  language  that 
is  spoken  in  heaven,  that  they  will  not  distort  their 
lips  with  the  hissing  and  unmusical  dialects  of 
men,  but  speak  their  own,  whether  there  be  any 
who  understand  it  or  not. 


/ 


ART. 


20 


ART. 


Because  the  soul  is  progressive,  it  never  quite 
repeats  itself,  but  in  every  act  attempts  the  pro- 
duction of  a new  and  fairer  whole.  This  appears 
in  works  both  of  the  useful  and  the  fine  arts,  if  we 
emplo)"  the  popular  distinction  of  works  according 
to  their  aim,  either  at  use  or  beauty.  Thus  in  our 
fine  arts,  not  imitation,  but  creation  is  the  aim. 
In  landscapes,  the  painter  should  give  the  sugges- 
tion of  a fairer  creation  than  we  know.  The 
details,  the  prose  of  nature  he  should  omit,  and 
give  us  only  the  spirit  and  splendor.  He  should 
know  that  the  landscape  has  beauty  for  his  eye, 
because  it  expresses  a thought  which  is  to  him 
good ; and  this,  because  the  same  power  which 
sees  through  his  eyes,  is  seen  in  that  spectacle  ; 
and  he  will  come  to  value  the  expression  of  nature, 
and  not  nature  itself,  and  so  exalt  in  his  copy,  the 
features  that  please  him.  He  will  give  the  gloom 
of  gloom,  and  the  sunshine  of  sunshine.  In  a por- 
trait, he  must  inscribe  the  character,  and  not  the 
features,  and  must  esteem  the  man  who  sits  to 
him  as  himself  only  an  imperfect  picture  or  like- 
ness of  the  aspiring  original  within. 


(307) 


3o8 


ESS  A Y XII. 


What  is  that  abridgment  and  selection  we  ob- 
serve in  all  spiritual  activity,  but  itself  the  creative 
impulse  ? for  it  is  the  inlet  of  that  higher  illumin- 
ation which  teaches  to  convey  a larger  sense  by 
simpler  symbols.  What  is  a man  b^ut  nature’s 
finer  success  in  self-explication  ? What  is  a man 
but  a finer  and  compactor  landscape  than  the 
horizon  figures  ; nature’s  eclecticism  ? and  what  is 
his  speech,  his  love  of  painting,  love  of  nature,  but 
a still  finer  success?  all  the  weary  miles  and  tons 
of  space  and  bulk  left  out,  and  the  spirit  or  moral 
of  it  contracted  into  a musical  word,  or  the  most 
cunning  stroke  of  the  pencil  ? 

But  the  artist  must  employ  the  symbols  in  use 
in  his  day  and  nation,  to  convey  his  enlarged  sense 
to  his  fellow-men.  Thus  the  new  in  art  is  always 
formed  out  of  the  old.  The  Genius  of  the  Hour 
always  sets  his  ineffaceable  seal  on  the  work,  and 
gives  it  an  inexpressible  charm  for  the  imagina- 
tion. As  far  as  the  spiritual  character  of  the 
period  overpowers  the  artist,  and  finds  expression 
in  his  work,  so  far  it  will  always  retain  a certain 
grandeur,  and  will  represent  to  future  beholders 
the  Unknown,  the  Inevitable,  the  Divine.  No 
man  can  quite  exclude  this  element  of  Necessity 
from  his  labor.  No  man  can  quite  emancipate 
himself  from  his  age  and  country,  or  produce  a 
model  in  which  the  education,  the  religion,  the 
politics,  usages,  and  arts,  of  his  times  shall  have 
no  share.  Though  he  were  never  so  original, 
never  so  wilful  and  fantastic,  he  cannot  wipe  out 
of  his  work  every  trace  of  the  thoughts  amidst 


ART, 


309 


which  it  grew.  The  very  avoidance  betrays  the 
usage  he  avoids.  Above  his  will,  and  out  of  his 
sight,  he  is  necessitated,  by  the  air  he  breathes, 
and  the  idea  on  which  he  and  his  contemporaries 
live  and  toil,  to  share  the  manner  of  his  times, 
without  knowing  what  that  manner  is.  Now  that 
which  is  inevitable  in  the  work,  has  a higher  charm 
than  individual  talent  can  ever  give,  inasmuch  as 
the  artist’s  pen  or  chisel  seems  to  have  been  held 
and  guided  by  a gigantic  hand  to  inscribe  a line  in 
the  history  of  the  human  race.  This  circumstance 
gives  a value  to  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  to 
the  Indian,  Chinese,  and  Mexican  idols,  however 
gross  and  shapeless.  They  denote  the  height  of 
the  human  soul  in  that  hour,  and  were  not  fantas- 
tic, but  sprung  from  a necessity  as  deep  as  the 
world.  Shall  I now  add  that  the  whole  extant 
product  of  the  plastic  arts  has  herein  its  highest 
value,  history ; as  a stroke  drawn  in  the  por- 
trait of  that  fate,  perfect  and  beautiful,  according 
to  whose  ordinations  all  beings  advance  to  their 
beatitude. 

Thus,  historically  viewed,  it  has  been  the  office  \ 
of  art  to  educate  the  perception  of  beauty.  We^ 
are  immersed  in  beauty,  but  our  eyes  have  no 
clear  vision.  It  needs,  by  the  exhibition  of  single 
traits,  to  assist  and  lead  the  dormant  taste.  We 
carve  and  paint,  or  we  behold  what  is  carved  and 
painted,  as  students  of  the  mystery  of  Form.  The 
virtue  of  art  lies  in  detachment,  in  sequestering  one 
object  from  the  embarrassing  variety.  Until  one 
thing  comes  out  from  the  connection  of  things,  there 


310 


ESS  A Y XII. 


can  be  enjoyment,  contemplation,  but  no  thought* 
Our  happiness  and  unhappiness  are  unproductive. 
The  infant  lies  in  a pleasing  trance,  but  his  individ- 
ual character,  and  his  practical  power  depend  on 
his  daily  progress  in  the  separation  of  things,  and 
dealing  with  one  at  a time.  Love  and  all  the  pas- 
sions concentrate  all  existence  around  a single 
form.  It  is  the  habit  of  certain  minds  to  give  an 
all-excluding  fulness  to  the  object,  the  thought, 
the  word,  they  alight  upon,  and  to  make  that  for  the 
time  the  deputy  of  the  world.  These  are  the  artists, 
the  orators,  the  leaders  of  society.  The  power  to 
detach,  and  to  magnify  by  detaching,  is  the  essence 
of  rhetoric  in  the  hands  of  the  orator  and  the 
poet.  This  rhetoric,  or  power  to  fix  the  moment- 
ary eminency  of  an  object,  so  remarkable  in 
Burke,  in  Byron,  in  Carlyle, — the  painter  and 
sculptor  exhibit  in  color  and  in  stone.  The  power 
depends  on  the  depth  of  the  artist’s  insight  of 
that  object  he  contemplates.  For  every  object  has 
its  roots  in  central  nature,  and  may  of  course  be 
so  exhibited  to  us  as  to  represent  the  world.  There- 
fore, each  work  of  genius  is  the  tyrant  of  the 
hour,  and  concentrates  attention  on  itself.  For 
the  time,  it  is  the  only  thing  worth  naming,  to  do 
that, — be  it  a sonnet,  an  opera,  a landscape,  a 
statue,  an  oration,  the  plan  of  a temple,  of  a cam- 
paign, or  of  a voyage  of  discovery.  Presently  we 
pass  to  some  other  object,  which  rounds  itself  into 
a whole,  as  did  the  first ; for  example,  a well  laid 
garden  : and  nothing  seems  worth  doing  but  the 
laying  out  of  gardens.  I should  think  fire  the  best 


ART. 


311 

thing  in  the  world,  if  T were  not  acquainted  with  aii\ 
and  water,  and  earth.  For  it  is  the  right  and  prop- 
erty of  all  natural  objects,  of  all  genuine  talents,, 
of  all  native  properties  whatsoever,  to  be  for  their 
moment  the  top  of  the  world.  A squirrel  leaping 
from  bough  to  bough,  and  making  the  wood  but 
one  wide  tree  for  his  pleasure,  fills  the  eye  not  les^ 
than  a lion,  is  beautiful,  self-sufScing,  and  stands 
then  and  there  for  nature.  A good  ballad  draws 
my  ear  and  heart  whilst  I listen,  as  much  as  an  epic 
has  done  before.  A dog,  drawn  by  a master,  or  a 
litter  of  pigs,  satisfies,  and  is  a reality  not  less 
than  the  frescoes  of  Ai]gelo.  From  this  succes-s 
sion  of  excellent  objects,  learn  we  at  last  the  im- 
mensity of  the  world,  the  opulence  of  humau 
nature,  which  can  run  out  to  infinitude  in  any  di- 
rection. But  I also  learn  that  what  astonished 
and  fascinated  me  in  the  first  work,  astonished  me 
in  the  second  work  also,  that  excellence  of  all 
things  is  one. 

The  office  of  painting  and  sculpture  seems  to  be 
merely  initial.  The  best  pictures  can  easily  tell 
us  their  last  secret.  The  best  pictures  are  rude 
draughts  of  a few  of  the  miraculous  dots  and  lines 
and  dyes  which  make  up  the  ever-changing  ‘‘  land 
scape  with  figures  ” amidst  which  we  dwell.  Paint' 
ing  seems  to  be  to  the  eye  what  dancing  is  to  the 
limbs.  When  that  has  educated  the  frame  to  self- 
possession,  to  nimbleness,  to  grace,  the  steps 
of  the  dancing- master  are  better  forgotten;  \ 
so  painting  teaches  me  the  splendor  of  color  and  / 
the  expression  of  form,  and,  as  I see  many  pictures  v 


312 


ESS  A V XI L 


and  higher  genius  in  the  art,  I see  the  boundless 
opulence  of  the  pencil,  the  indifferency  in  which 
the  artist  stands  free  to  choose  out  of  the  possible 
forms.  If  he  can  draw  everything,  why  draw  any- 
thing? and  then  is  my  eye  opened  to  the  eternal 
picture  which  nature  paints  in  the  street  with 
moving  men  and  children,  beggars,  and  fine  ladies, 
draped  in  red,  and  green,  and  blue,  and  gray ; 
long-haired,  grizzled,  white-faced,  black-faced, 
wrinkled,  giant,  dwarf,  expanded,  elfish, — capped 
and  based  by  heaven,  earth,  and  sea. 

A gallery  of  sculpture  teaches  more  austerely 
the  same  lesson.  As  picture  teaches  the  color- 
ing, so  sculpture  the  anatomy  of  form.  When  I 
have  seen  fine  statues,  and  afterwards  enter  a 
public  assembly,  I understand  well  what  he  meant 
who  said,  When  I have  been  reading  Homer,  all 
men  look  like  giants.”  I too  see  that  painting  and 
sculpture  are  gymnastics  of  the  eye,  its  training 
to  the  niceties  and  curiosities  of  its  function. 
There  is  no  statue  like  this  living  man,  with  his 
infinite  advantage  over  all  ideal  sculpture,  of  per- 
petual variety.  What  a gallery  of  art  have  I 
here ! No  mannerist  made  these  varied  groups 
and  diverse  original  single  figures.  Here  is  the 
artist  himself  improvising,  grim  and  glad,  at  his' 
block.  Now  one  thought  strikes  him,  now 
another,  and  with  each  moment  he  alters  the 
whole  air,  attitude  and  expression  of  his  clay. 
Away  with  your  nonsense  of  oil  and  easels,  of 
marble  and  chisels:  except  to  open  your. eyes  to 


ART,  313 

the  witchcraft  of  eternal  art,  they  are  hypocritical 
rubbish. 

The  reference  of  all  production  at  last  to  an 
Aboriginal  Power,  explains  the  traits  common  to 
all  works  of  the  highest  art,  that  they  are  univer- 
sally intelligible ; that  they  restore  to  us  the 
simplest  states  of  mind  ; and  are  religious.  Since 
what  skill  is  therein  shown  is  the  reappearance  of 
the  original  soul,  a jet  of  pure  light;  it  should 
produce  a similar  impression  to  that  made  by  nat- 
ural objects.  In  happy  hours,  nature  appears  toy 
us  one  with  art ; art  perfected, — the  work  of  j 
genius.  And  the  individual  in  whom  simple  tastes  ' 
and  susceptibility  to  all  the  great  human  in- 
fluences, overpowers  the  accidents  of  a local  and 
special  culture,  is  the  best  critic  of  art.  Though 
we  travel  the  world  over  to  find  the  beautiful,  we 
must  carry  it  with  us,  or  we  find  it  not.  The  best 
of  beauty  is  a finer  charm  than  skill  in  surfaces, 
in  outlines,  or  rules  of  art  can  ever  teach,  namely, 
a radiation  from  the  work  of  art,  of  human 
character, — a wonderful  expression  through  stone 
or  canvas  or  musical  sound  of  the  deepest  and 
simplest  attributes  of  our  nature,  and  therefore 
most  intelligible  at  last  to  those  souls  which  have 
these  attributes.  In  the  sculptures  of  the  Greeks, 
in  the  masonry  of  the  Romans,  and  in  the  pic- 
tures of  the  Tuscan  and  Venetian  masters,  the  \ 
highest  charm  is  the  universal  language  thry/^ 
speak.  A confession  of  moral  nature,  of  purity, 
love,  and  hope,  breathes  from  them  all.  That 
which  we  carry  to  them,  the  same  we  bring  back 


314 


ESS  A V XI L 


more  fairly  illustrated  in  the  memory.  The  trav- 
eller who  visits  the  Vatican,  and  passes  from 
chamber  to  chamber  through  galleries  of  statues, 
vases,  sarcophagi,  and  candelabra,  through  all 
forms  of  beauty,  cut  in  the  richest  materials,  is  in 
danger  of  forgetting  the  simplicity  of  the  princi- 
ples out  of  which  they  all  sprung,  and  that  they 
had  their  origin  from  thoughts  and  laws  in  his  own 
breast.  He  studies  the  technical  rules  on  these 
wonderful  remains,  but  forgets  that  these  works 
were  not  always  thus  constellated ; that  they  are 
the  contributions  of  many  ages,  and  many  coun- 
tries; that  each  came  out  of  the  solitary  workshop 
of  one  artist,  who  toiled  perhaps  in  ignorance  of 
the  existence  of  other  sculpture,  created  his  work 
without  other  model,  save  life,  household  life,  and 
the  sweet  and  smart  of  personal  relations,  of  beat- 
ing hearts,  and  meeting  eyes,  of  poverty,  and 
necessity,  and  hope,  and  fear.  These  were  his  in- 
spirations, and  these  are  the  effects  he  carries 
home  to  your  heart  and  mind.  In  proportion  to 
his  force,  the  artist  will  find  in  his  work  an  outlet 
for  his  proper  character.  He  must  not  be  in  any 
manner  pinched  or  hindered  by  his  material,  but 
through  his  necessity  of  imparting  himself,  the 
adamant  will  be  wax  in  his  hands,  and  will  allow 
an  adequate  communication  of  himself  in  his  full 
stature  and  proportion.  Not  a conventional  na- 
ture and  culture  need  he  cumber  himself  with,  nor 
ask  what  is  the  mode  in  Rome  or  in  Paris,  but 
that  house,  and  weather,  and  manner  of  living, 
which  poverty  and  the  fate  of  birth  have  made  at 


AJ^T, 


315 

once  so  odious  and  so  dear,  in  the  gray,  unpainted 
wood  cabin,  on  the  corner  of  a New  Hampshire 
farm,  or  in  the  log  hut  of  the  backwoods,  or  in  the 
narrow  lodging  where  he  has  endured  the  con- 
straints and  seeming  of  a city  poverty, — will  serve 
as  well  as  any  other  condition,  as  the  symbol  of  a 
thought  which  pours  itself  indifferently  through 
all. 

I remember,  when  in  my  younger  days,  I had 
heard  of  the  wonders  of  Italian  painting,  I fan- 
cied the  great  pictures  would  be  great  strangers  ; 
some  surprising  combination  of  color  and  form  ; a 
foreign  wonder,  barbaric  pearl  and  gold,  like  the 
spontoons  and  standards  of  the  militia,  which 
play  such  pranks  in  the  eyes  and  imaginations  of 
school  boys.  I was  to  see  and  acquire  I knew  not 
what.  When  I came  at  last  to  Rome,  and  saw 
with  eyes  the  pictures,  I found  that  genius  left  to 
novices  the  gay  and  fantastic  and  ostentatious, 
and  itself  pierced  directly  to  the  simple  and  true  ; 
that  it  was  familiar  and  sincere  j that  it  was  the 
old,  eternal  fact  I had  met  already  in  so  many 
forms;  unto  which  I lived;  that  it  was  the  plain 
you  and  me  I knew  so  well, — had  left  at  home  in 
so  many  conversations.  I had  the  same  experi- 
ence already  in  a church  at  Naples.  There  I saw 
that  nothing  was  changed  wdth  me  but  the  place, 
and  said  to  myself, — ' Thou  foolish  child,  hast 
thou  come  out  hither,  over  four  thousand  miles  of 
salt  water,  to  find  that  which  was  perfect  to  thee, 
there  at  home?’ — that  fact  I saw  again  in  the 
Academmia  at  Naples,  in  the  chambers  of  sculp- 


3i6 


ESSA  y XII. 


< 

< 


ture,  and  yet  again  when  I came  to  Rome,  and  to 
the  paintings  of  Raphael,  Angelo,  Sacchi,  Titian, 
and  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  What  old  mole  ! work- 
est  thou  in  the  earth  so  fast?”  It  had  travelled 
by  my  side ; that  which  I fancied  I had  left  in 
Boston,  was  here  in  the  Vatican,  and  again  at 
Milan,  and  at  Paris,  and  made  all  travelling  ridic- 
ulous as  a treadmill.  I now  require  this  of  all 
pictures,  that  they  domesticate  me,  not  that  they 
dazzle  me.  Pictures  must  not  be  too  picturesque. 
Nothing  astonishes  men  so  much  as  common  sense 
and  plain  dealing.  All  great  actions  have  been 
simple,  and  all  great  pictures  are. 

The  Transfiguration,  by  Raphael,  is  an  eminent 
example  of  this  peculiar  merit.  A calm,  benig- 
nant beauty  shines  over  all  this  picture,  and  goes 
directly  to  the  heart.  It  seems  almost  to  call  you 
hy  name.  The  sweet  and  sublime  face  of  Jesus 
is  beyond  praise,  yet  how  it  disappoints  all  florid 
expectations!  This  familiar,  simple,  home-speak- 
ing countenance,  is  as  if  one  should  meet  a friend. 
The  knowledge  of  picture-dealers  has  its  value, 
but  listen  not  to  their  criticism  when  your  heart 
is  touched  by  genius.  It  was  not  painted  for 
them,  it  was  painted  for  you  ; for  such  as  had  eyes 
capable  of  being  touched  by  simplicit}^  and  lofty 
emotions. 

Yet  when  we  have  said  all  our  fine  things  about 
the  arts,  we  must  end  with  a frank  confession, 
that  the  arts,  as  we  know  them,  are  but  initial. 
Our  best  praise  is  given  to  what  they  aimed  and 
promised,  not  to  the  actual  result.  He  has  con- 


ART. 


317 


ceived  meanly  of  the  resources  of  man,  who  be- 
lieves that  the  best  age  of  production  is  past. 
The  real  value  of  the  Iliad,  or  the  Transfigura- 
tion, is  as  signs  of  power;  billows  or  ripples  they 
are  of  the  great  stream  of  tendency;  tokens  of 
the  everlasting  effort  to  produce,  which  even  in 
its  worst  estate,  the  soul  betrays.  Art  has  not 
yet  come  to  its  maturity,  if  it  do  not  put  itself 
abreast  with  the  most  potent  influences  of  the 
world,  if  it  is  not  practical  and  moral,  if  it  do  not 
stand  in  connection  with  the  conscience,  if  it  do 
not  make  the  poor  and  uncultivated  feel  that  it 
addresses  them  with  a voice  of  lofty  cheer.  There 
is  higher  work  for  Art  than  the  arts.  The\^  are 
abortive  births  of  an  imperfect  or  vitiated  instinct. 
Art  is  the  need  to  create  ; but  in  its  essence,  im- 
mense and  universal,  it  is  impatient  of  working 
with  lame  or  tied  hands,  and  of  making  cripples 
and  monsters,  such  as  all  pictures  and  statues  are. 
Nothing  less  than  the  creation  of  man  and  nature 
is  its  end.  A man  should  find  in  it  an  outlet  for 
his  whole  energy.  He  may  paint  and  carve  only 
as  long  as  he  can  do  that.  Art  should  exhilarate, 
and  throw  down  the  walls  of  circumstance  on 
every  side,  awakening  in  the  beholder  the  same 
sense  of  universal  relation  and  power  which  the 
work  evinced  in  the  artist,  and  its  highest  effect 
is  to  make  new  artists. 

Already  History  is  old  enough  to  witness  the 
old  age  and  disappearance  of  particular  arts. 
The  art  of  sculpture  is  long  ago  perished  to  any 
real  effect.  It  was  originally  a useful  art,  a mode 


3i8 


ESS  A V XII. 


of  writing,  a savage's  record  of  gratitude  or  de- 
votion, and  among  a people  possessed  of  a wonder- 
ful perception  of  form,  this  childish  carving  was 
refined  to  the  utmost  splendor  of  effect.  But  it 
is  the  game  of  a rude  and  youthful  people,  and 
not  the  manly  labor  of  a wise  and  spiritual  na- 
tion. Under  an  oak  tree  loaded  with  leaves  and 
nuts,  under  a sky  full  of  eternal  eyes,  I stand  in 
a thoroughfare ; but  in  the  works  of  our  plastic 
arts,  and  especially  of  sculpture,  creation  is 
driven  into  a corner.  I cannot  hide  from  myself 
that  there  is  a certain  appearance  of  paltriness,  as 
of  toys,  and  the  trumpery  of  a theatre,  in  sculp- 
ture. Nature  transcends  all  our  moods  of  thought, 
and  its  secret  we  do  not  yet  find.  But  the  gal- 
ler}'  stands  at  the  mercy  of  our  moods,  and  there 
is  a moment  when  it  becomes  frivolous.  I do 
not  wonder  that  Newton,  with  an  attention  habit- 
uall}^  engaged  on  the  path  of  planets  and  suns, 
should  have  wondered  what  the  Earl  of  Pem- 
broke found  to  admire  in  stone  dolls.”  Sculp- 
ture may  serve  to  teach  the  pupil  how  deep  is 
the  secret  of  form,  how  purely  the  spirit  can 
translate  its  meanings  into  that  eloquent  dialect. 
But  the  statue  will  look  cold  and  false  before 
that  new  activity  which  needs  to  roll  through 
all  things,  and  is  impatient  of  counterfeits,  and 
things  not  alive.  Picture  and  sculpture  are  the 
celebrations  and  festivities  of  form.  But  true 
art  is  never  fixed,  but  always  flowing.  The 
sweetest  music  is  not  in  the  oratorio,  but  in  the 
human  voice  when  it  speaks  from  its  instant  life, 


ART, 


319 


tones  of  tenderness,  truth,  or  courage.  The  ora- 
torio has  already  lost  its  relation  to  the  morning, 
to  the  sun,  and  the  earth,  but  that  persuading 
voice  is  in  tune  with  these.  All  works  of  art 
should  not  be  detached,  but  extempore  perform- 
ances. A great  man  is  a new  statue  in  every  at- 
titude and  action.  A beautiful  woman  is  a pic- 
ture winch  drives  all  beholders  nobly  mad.  Life 
may  be  lyric  or  epic,  as  well  as  a poem  or  a ro- 
mance. 

A true  announcement  of  the  law  of  creation, 
if  a man  were  found  worthy  to  declare  it,  would 
carry  art  up  into  the  kingdom  of  nature,  and 
destroy  its  separate  and  contrasted  existence. 
The  fountains  of  invention  and  beauty  in  mod- 
ern society  are  all  but  dried  up.  A popular 
novel,  a theatre,  or  a ball-room  makes  us  feel  that 
we  are  all  paupers  in  the  almshouse  of  this  world, 
without  dignity,  without  skill,  or  industry.  Art 
is  as  poor  and  low.  The  old  tragic  Necessity, 
which  lowers  on  the  brows  even  of  the  Venuses 
and  the  Cupids  of  the  antique,  and  furnishes  the 
sole  apology  for  the  intrusions  of  such  anomalous 
figures  into  nature, — namely,  that  they  were  in- 
evitable; that  the  artist  was  drunk  with  a passion 
for  form  which  he  could  not  resist,  and  which 
vented  itself  in  these  fine  extravagancies, — no 
longer  dignifies  the  chisel  or  the  pencil.  But  the 
artist,  and  the  connoisseur,  now  seek  in  art  the 
exhibition  of  their  talent,  or  an  asylum  from  the 
evils  of  life.  Men  are  not  well  pleased  with  the 
figure  they  make  in  their  own  imagination,  and 


320 


ESS  A V XI L 


they  flee  to  art,  and  convey  their  better  sense  in 
an  oratorio,  a statue,  or  a picture.  Art  makes 
the  same  effort  which  a sensual  prosperity  makes, 
namely,  to  detach  the  beautiful  from  the  useful, 
to  do  up  the  work  as  unavoidable,  and  hating  it, 
pass  on  to  enjoyment.  These  solaces  and  compen- 
sations, this  division  of  beauty  from  use,  the  laws 
of  nature  do  not  permit.  As  soon  as  beauty  is 
sought  not  from  religion  and  love,  but  for  pleasure, 
it  degrades  the  seeker.  High  beauty  is  no  longer 
attainable  by  him  in  canvas  or  in  stone,  in  sound, 
or  in  lyrical  construction  ; an  efi’eminate  prudent, 
sickly  beauty,  which  is  not  beauty,  is  all  that  can 
be  formed  ; for  the  hand  can  never  execute  any- 
thing higher  than  the  character  can  inspire. 

The  art  that  thus  separates,  is  itself  first  sepa- 
rated. Art  must  not  be  a superficial  talent,  but 
must  begin  farther  back  in  man.  Now  men  do 
not  see  nature  to  be  beautiful,  and  they  go  to 
make  a statue  which  shall  be.  They  abhor  men 
as  tasteless,  dull  and  inconvertible,  and  console 
themselves  with  color-bags,  and  blocks  of  marble. 
They  reject  life  as  prosaic,  and  create  a death 
which  they  call  poetic.  They  despatch  the  day’s 
weary  chores,  and  fly  to  voluptuous  reveries. 
They  eat  and  drink,  that  they  may  afterwards  ex- 
ecute the  ideal.  Thus  is  art  vilified  ; the  name 
conveys  to  the  mind  its  secondary  and  bad  senses ; 
it  stands  in  the  imagination,  as  somewhat  contiary 
to  nature,  and  struck  with  death  from  the  first. 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  begin  higher  up, — to 
Berve  the  ideal  before  they  eat  and  drink;  to 


ART. 


321 


serve  the  ideal  in  eating  and  drinking,  in  drawing 
the  breath,  and  in  the  functions  of  life  ? Beauty 
must  come  back  to  the  useful  arts,  and  the  dis- 
tinction between  the  fine  and  the  useful  aits  be 
forgotten.  If  history  were  truly  told,  if  life  were 
nobly  spent,  it  would  be  no  longer  easy  or  possi- 
ble to  distinguish  the  one  from  the  other.  In  \ 
nature,  all  is  useful,  all  is  beautiful.  It  is  there-  / 
fore  beautiful,  because  it  is  alive,  moving,  repro- 
ductive ; it  is  therefore  useful,  because  it  is  sym- 
metrical and  fair.  Beauty  will  not  come  at  the 
call  of  a legislature,  nor  will  it  repeat  in  England 
or  America,  its  history  in  Greece.  It  will  come, 
as  always,  unannounced,  and  spring  up  between 
the  feet  of  brave  and  earnest  men.  It  is  in  vain 
that  we  look  for  genius  to  reiterate  its  miracles 
in  the  old  arts ; it  is  its  instinct  to  find  beauty 
and  holiness  in  new  and  necessary  facts,  in  the 
field  and  roadside,  in  the  shop  and  mill.  Proceed- 
ing from  a religious  heart  it  will  raise  to  a divine 
use,  the  railroad,  the  insurance  office,  the  joint 
stock  company,  our  law,  our  primary  assemblies, 
our  commerce,  the  galvanic  battery,  the  electric 
jar,  the  prism,  and  the  chemist’s  retort,  in  which 
we  seek  now  only  an  economical  use.  Is  not  the 
selfish,  and  even  cruel  aspect  which  belongs  to  our 
great  mechanical  works,  to  mills,  railways,  and  ma- 
chinery, the  effect  of  the  mercenary  impulse's 
which  these  works  obey?  When  its  errands  are 
noble  and  adequate,  a steamboat  bridging  the  At- 
lantic between  Old  and  New  England,  and  arriv- 
ing at  its  ports  with  the  punctuality  of  a planet, 

21 


322 


ESS  A Y XI L 


— is  a step  of  man  into  harmony  with  nature. 
The  boat  at  St  Petersburg,  which  plies  along  the 
Lena  by  magnetism,  needs  little  to  make  it  sub- 
lime. When  science  is  learned  in  love,  and  its 
powers  are  wielded  by  love,  they  will  appear  the 
supplements  and  continuations  of  the  material 
creation. 


THE  END. 


( 


' \ A' 

■: 

<r  .e^>':i'<^ 


.vl 


: 


i 


f 


